


The New War Series Book Two: The Sentinel Project

by terma_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1, The Pretender (TV), The Sentinel (TV), The X-Files, War of the Worlds (TV), due South
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-01
Updated: 2004-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:21:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 46,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26535736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terma_archivist/pseuds/terma_archivist
Summary: Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atTER/MAand was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address onthe TER/MA collection profile.
Collections: TER/MA





	1. Notes

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [TER/MA](https://fanlore.org/wiki/TER/MA) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the TER/MA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/terma/profile).

**The Sentinel Project  
by Lianne Burwell**

A War of the Worlds/X-Files crossover   
(With guest appearances from Beauty & the Beast, The Sentinel, Stargate SG-1, The Pretender and more to come) 

  
Notes before starting to read The Sentinel Project 

This is a sequel to a massive multi-fandom crossover story I did a couple years ago called "A New War" (which can be found on my webpage at http://www.squidge.org/~~lianne). That story grew out of a desire to 'fix' my main complaint in the television show, War of the Worlds, namely the death of Colonel Paul Ironhorse, my favorite character. 

I brought in X-Files, partly because the whole alien invasion thing worked well together, partly because I wanted to get Krycek and Mulder together. Then, bit by bit, other shows worked their way in. 

A New War ended on a cliffhanger, and I spent the next year or so working out some of what I wanted to have happen, although the plotline refused to gel. Then it did, and I started writing. 

Only problem was, September 11 promptly happened, and I started to have second thoughts about large parts of the plot. It started to seem a little... insensitive, if not exploitive, and the story went back on the back burner for the next six months. 

But now enough time has passed that I no longer feel the urge to throw the story out completely. I have the first few chapters written, and the next few plotted, so I feel ready to start posting (no doubt to the relief of the various people who have written me to ask about The Sentinel Project) 

For those who need to be reminded where the various characters are:   
Harrison and Ironhorse are back in Spender's hands, as is Suzanne.   
Suzanne's daughter, Debi, is at 'the Mexico facility', where she has been used for experiments.   
Krycek, Scully, Kincaid, and the bikers have rescued Mulder from The Center with the help of Jarod and Broots (The Pretender).   
The Lone Gunmen have vanished after rescuing Skinner from the hospital after he was nearly killed. Skinner is also MIA.   
The Sentinel and Stargate SG-1, which figured into A New War, will be returning as well.   
And Spender has just ordered the activation of The Sentinel Project. 

If you want to read the first series, go [here](http://www.squidge.org/~lianne/newwar/newwar.htm). 

So settle in folks, it's going to be a bumpy ride. 

[**Part One**](http://od-import.transformativeworks.org/terma/chapters/nw2_1.htm) The President is near death, the Vice-President is dead, and everything seems to be going to hell in a handbasket. 

**Part Two** Sentinels in danger and a mother-daughter reunion. 

**Part Three** Mulder and Krycek head for Chicago, much to Scully's displeasure, and Debi faces a crisis. 

**Part Four** Suzanne throws a fit when no one will tell her what happened to her daughter, and all the Sentinel-Guide pairs arrive at their new home. 

**Part Five** Suzanne and Debi are reunited, after Suzanne learns what's wrong with her daughter, the Sentinels discuss their options, and Mulder and Krycek arrive in Chicago. 

**Part Six** Debi and Suzanne speculate on Debi's condition, the sentinels speculate on their situation, Alex and Mulder speculate on what will happen next, and Hammond and O'Neill speculate on the White House plans for the Stargate Project. 

**Part Seven** A scientist contemplates the experiment, the new supervisor arrives at Stargate Central to shake things up, and Spender picks his first mission for the Sentinels. 

**Part Eight** Krycek meets with his contact, Ellison worries about Kowalski and Fraser, who are breaking into a government office. 

**Part Nine** Fraser and Kowalski succeed in their mission, Stargate Central deals with the new supervisor, and Broots has a possible lead. 

**Part Ten** Spender examines the files stolen by Fraser and Kowalski, Mulder and Krycek pick their next move, and Kincaid's group picks a target that might be linked to an old friend. 

**Part Eleven** Unexpected vistors arrive at the farmhouse, Stargate Central, and Key West, which could be good things or bad. 

**Part Twelve** Mulder and Krycek arrive in Miami, and Krycek has a plan. Skinner doesn't want to go to Mexico. Debi's pregnancy advances unnaturally fast. 

**Part Thirteen** SG-1 is informed of their new status as guinea pigs, and Krycek takes on the security of Estoban Montoya. 

**Part Fourteen** Kincaid and company head south of the border, while Krycek and Mulder question Montoya and things heat up in Key West. 

**Part Fifteen** The Stargate team face the return of the Tok'ra armbands, and news of the bomb leaks out. 


	2. Part One

**The Sentinel Project  
Part One   
by Lianne Burwell**

  
Paul Ironhorse shifted slightly on the couch that hugged one wall of the private jet, trying to ignore the light vibration from the jet's engine. Harrison Blackwood lay on the couch next to him, his head pillowed on Paul's thigh. Paul's foot was falling asleep, but he didn't even think of asking his lover to move. There were lines of strain on the older man's face, deepening the wrinkles that were already there, so any rest he could get was for the good. 

Older man. What a concept. Before, they'd been nearly the same age. Now Harrison had nearly a decade on him, a hellish decade from what little he'd said, with lines that made him look even older. Paul felt a pang of regret at the loss of those years, but quickly suppressed it. There was no point in mourning what might have been. Besides, they didn't have time for regrets: They were in too big a mess for that. 

They'd _been_ in one mess after another almost from the moment that he'd swum out of the dark green twilight of the Mothren suspension pod to find that nearly a decade had passed while he'd been trapped in barely remembered dreams and that the world had changed around him. 

Some of it was for the better. When he'd been captured by the Mothren, the world had seemed to be dissolving into chaos. Martial law had been declared and gangs of armed men roamed the streets. The aliens were on the verge of seizing complete control. Now, no one seemed to even remember. Harrison had explained that once when they'd wondered how several alien invasions could be remembered only as movies or books or radio dramas. Still, it was weird to see the effect in action, rather than seeing the evidence decades later. 

And some of it was for the worse. The Consortium was definitely an example of that. Powerful men and women who'd made a Faustian bargain with a race of aliens claiming to be from another dimension who'd been carefully planning a takeover of this world for decades, if not centuries. The Consortium had decided that instead of fighting, they would take the Quisling route; helping the aliens in return for a position of power in the slave society that would come after the takeover. Of course, they had also been working behind the scenes to find a way to kill the aliens, from what Spender had told them after their recapture. The only problem was, the Consortium had planned to use that method _after_ the takeover, leaving them the heroes of a demoralized world. 

Giving them power in that world. 

All of this he'd learned in the weeks since his rediscovery. And in that time, he'd been free for all of four days. Just long enough to be reunited with old friends and captured by new enemies. Since then, he'd been forced to simply react to events, passing from one form of captivity to another. 

It was a pattern he hoped to break. He wasn't sure how yet, but he was tired of dancing to someone else's tune. 

First they'd been in Spender's hands, going through painful tests of the enhanced senses that Harrison had developed during his years of solitude. The toll they'd taken on the man had been painful to see, but there'd been nothing he could do to stop it. All he'd been able to do was try to help the man deal with the pain. 

Then they'd been handed over to one of the aliens, one that they'd met before, a decade earlier. Only thing was, she'd turned out to be a rebel who'd implanted in their brains the knowledge necessary to stop her own people years ago when they'd first met her. He still wasn't sure that she'd told them the truth about her own motivations, even after she'd helped them destroy her race's only entry into their world. 

Of course, there was also still the question of whether _she'd_ been told the truth by her own people. From what she'd told them, her people's leaders hadn't trusted anyone. They'd made sure that no one in their invasion project could work against them, so it wasn't unthinkable that they hadn't told their people everything. 

Like maybe they had more than one operation going, each one completely separate, with the right hand not knowing what the left hand was doing. Then again, maybe it _had_ been a beachhead operation, the first physical probe. There was no way to know for sure, unless they stumbled across something. Hell, maybe Katara helping them was just part of an alien coup, and now a _new_ group would be moving on them. Ironhorse had no way to know, and that bothered him. 

Whatever was going on, after using them against her own people, she'd simply sent them right back into Spender's hands, so he wasn't sure how far to trust what she'd told them. 

So now they were back in the hands of a Consortium that was seriously pissed off about having their plans disrupted. They'd been questioned long and painfully until Spender had been satisfied that he'd learned everything he could from them—which wasn't a hell of a lot. Then he'd vanished for a few days, leaving them to stew, wondering what was going to happen to them. 

When he'd reappeared, you didn't have to have Harrison's senses to tell that the man was furious. Something had happened, something that was further disrupting the man's plans. 

In short order, he and Harrison had been bundled onto this small jet—maybe even the same one they'd been on before for the flight from Seacouver to wherever it was they had been. Suzanne had been taken in a different direction, and they had no idea where she was. Of course, they had no idea where _they_ were either. 

But they were almost there, Paul realized as the sound of the engines grew louder as the plane started to slowly descend. Harrison, who'd managed an uneasy doze, shifted and sat up, wincing. Their single armed guard tensed at the movement, his hand going to the butt of his gun. Paul had briefly considered jumping the man and using his weapon to force the pilot to land, but he'd decided that the man was just a little too twitchy to be able to do that without risking him blowing a hole in the side of the plane or shooting someone he shouldn't have. 

"Relax," he said softly. "If it's the sound, find something else to listen to." 

Harrison clenched his teeth and shook his head slightly. "Vibrations," he forced out. 

"So focus your sense of touch on something else." 

Paul wrapped his arm around the bigger man's shoulders, and rubbed his hand up and down Harrison's forearm. It wasn't much, but it seemed to be doing the trick. The stress lines on Harrison's face eased a little, although they didn't disappear. They locked eyes, neither one of them sure of what was going to happen next. 

All they could do was wait and find out. 

* * *

Alex watched over Mulder's shoulder as the FBI agent made his new laptop jump through hoops. Alex was pretty computer- savvy—he needed to be in his line of work—but he was miles behind Mulder. Of course, Mulder was also miles behind his techno-geek friends, the Lone Gunmen, but those three were in a category of their own. Thank God. Alex wasn't sure that the world could survive more than just three. 

The machine had been supplied by one of Wolfling's contacts the second time they'd changed safe-houses. Mulder had quickly accessed a hidden, password-protected site and downloaded a ton of software that he'd installed on the laptop. The site wasn't as protected as that might make it seem—nothing was, on the net—but it was just the starting point. It was a sort of depot maintained by the Gunmen for just this sort of situation, needing to secure a computer while on the run. Alex had never met the three men, but he liked them. They were just as paranoid as he was. 

Now that the machine was as secure as it was going to get, considering the circumstances, Mulder was hunting. Hunting for the Gunmen. Hunting for Skinner. Hunting for the enemy. Hunting for information. They had foolishly thought that after Mulder's rescue, everything was going to be relatively simple. Find the others, rescue them, settle down to plan. Demolish Spender and his organization. 

They'd been stupidly optimistic. 

The assassination of the Vice-President and nearly successful attempt on the President's life had changed _that_ plan. Instead, they were in a country where _everyone_ was watching strangers with suspicion, paranoia fueled by the rhetoric coming out of Washington. Already, dozens had been arrested as part of the conspiracy, and officials were saying that it was just the tip of the iceberg. And it wasn't just limited to Arabs anymore. The IRA were also being linked. Pretty soon, every terrorist organization in the world was going to be implicated, it seemed. 

And he would bet that none of them were anything more than patsies. 

There was little word on the President's condition. According to the reports, he was in a coma, perhaps near death, after being shot by one of his own Secret Service detail, but there were few actual details available. For all anyone knew, he was actually dead. He'd quickly been moved to a secret location, supposedly to protect him from further attempts on his life. Curfews had been imposed. Martial law was being suggested. 

What the hell had gone wrong? Alex knew the inner circles of the Consortium—at least the Consortium as it had been before the torching—and this was not the sort of thing they would do. Certainly, Spender was far too subtle to agree to something this... blatant. 

And yet, Jerome Michaels—Speaker of the House and now de- facto President— _was_ a high-placed Consortium member, more because of his position than his brains. Alex remembered him well. This was definitely the sort of thing that he would come up with, especially since it put _him_ in a position of power. And he had support from a lot of the younger members of the Consortium, the impatient ones. Alex had a grudging respect for Spender and the Brit, but Michaels? He had nothing but contempt for the man. 

So, there was only one real answer to explain what was happening. Something had happened, something big, and the Consortium was splintering. 

And _that_ meant that they were in even more trouble than before. 

"Well, that's it," Mulder said, settling back in his chair. "I've left messages for the guys on all of their message boards. If they're still alive and have access, they'll get back to me. But it might take a while." 

Alex sighed. "There isn't a lot we can do while we're still hiding," he said. "Broots is hunting for the information on this Mexico facility, but that's techie grunt-work and slow, considering the amount of data he has to go through." Especially since Jarod seemed intent on distracting the geek. He wasn't sure what the attraction was, but after getting Mulder into his bed after years of their dance, he was willing to go easy on them. 

"So what are you suggesting?" Mulder frowned. 

Alex took a deep breath. He didn't much like the idea, and he knew that Mulder was going to hate it, but it was the obvious choice. "I still have contacts I can use, but they don't work over the computer or the phone. I have to go hunt them down myself." 

"Are you nuts?! Your face is probably in every police database as wanted, armed and dangerous by now." The expression on Mulder's face almost made him laugh. 

"Like it wasn't already?" Alex said wryly. He had plenty of experience evading hunters; he wasn't likely to get himself caught now. Still, it was nice to see his once-enemy all worried about him. 

Mulder chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, momentarily distracting Alex with lustful thoughts. "Fine, but I'm coming with you." 

"Like hell," Alex snapped, all amusement gone. "You need to stay here. Your contacts _will_ work over the computer. Plus, someone needs to be here for when nervous boy finds what we need." 

"The laptop travels, and they can contact us that way too," Mulder pointed out in a disturbingly reasonable tone. Mulder was rarely reasonable. It was part of his charm. 

"You'll be safer here," Alex tried. 

"I'll be safer with you. You aren't leaving without me. Try it. I'll follow you." 

Alex snorted. "You won't be able to find me." 

"Then I'll be wandering around alone and blind, a target for any Consortium operative who sees me." Mulder's expression was completely innocent, but he could see the mischief lurking behind it. And he would, too. Just the sort of opportunity the Consortium would jump at. Alex groaned. 

"Shit. This is blackmail, you realize," he griped. 

Mulder's grin said that he scented victory. "Maybe, but now that I've got you, I'm not willing to let you go so soon. I'm serious, Alex. Either we go together or you don't go at all." 

"Fine," Alex snapped. "But you do _exactly_ what I say, when I say it. No stopping to argue, or we could both end up dead. Got it?" 

Mulder's grin was blinding now. "Oh, I got it." Alex wasn't sure he bought that; after a lifetime of disobeying orders, Mulder wasn't the sort of leopard to change his spots _that_ quickly. Still, with time and effort... 

"Besides, I enjoy doing what you tell me," Mulder added with a pointed glance towards the bed. Alex started to smile, his cock firming up at the promise on the man's face. Considering how long it had taken to get the beautiful bastard into bed, Mulder had taken to the sex like a hedonist. He was quickly becoming even more of a wanton slut than Alex's wildest fantasies. Alex's only regret was that he hadn't managed to seduce the man _years_ ago. 

"Well, then," Alex purred. "How about you take your clothes off and lie face down on the bed, legs spread as far apart as you can get them." 

Mulder moved quickly to obey, and Alex watched him for a moment, lying there with his hips moving in slow circles, rubbing his cock against the bedspread. He looked good enough to eat. Pure temptation, and Alex had never been good at resisting temptation. 

Alex shucked his own clothes as fast as he could one-handed and moved to cover Mulder, nuzzling at the soft skin below Mulder's right ear. The man practically purred under him. Alex started moving his hand over the firm body, glorying in his possession of the man, then bit down hard at the back of Mulder's neck. He grinned at the yelp, which was more of surprise than pain, then sucked at the spot until he had a good-sized mark going. 

"One other thing," he said as he reached for the nearly empty tube of lubricant underneath their pillow. "You get to tell Scully that you're leaving her behind to go off with me." 

Whatever reply Mulder might have made was lost in the lush groan as Alex started to prep him. 

Scully would freak, but Alex didn't care. Mulder was _his_. 

* * *

Debi McCullough was pacing again. It was one of the few things that her captors allowed her to do. She kept her rooms tidy, even though she knew that if she didn't, sooner or later someone would come along and do it for her. She had reading material, at least. It had taken days of asking before a pile of paperbacks had finally appeared on her bedside table while she slept. They were a strange mixed bag, heavy on the romances, but better than nothing. She'd been ready to climb the walls with boredom. 

However, she was _not_ allowed any sort of periodical. She no longer had any idea what the date was, and with periods taken from her by drugs, she couldn't even guess, and she still didn't know _where_ she was, other than someplace tropical. But other than the books, her only break in the day was a late afternoon walk in the gardens, assuming that the weather was good, which is why she knew even that much about where she was. 

Ceto was her usual escort on her walks. She'd quickly figured out that she wasn't going to be allowed out on her own, and the simple human-feline hybrid was a better companion than the alternatives she'd been presented with. At first she'd thought that maybe she could convince him to help her escape, as he had quickly become very attached to her. However, the one time she'd broached the subject, he'd become very upset. He took his duties very seriously, and her trying to convince him to go against orders had almost driven him into a panic attack. 

She hadn't had the heart to try again. 

A sudden roiling in her stomach stopped her in her tracks, and she pressed a hand to it, refusing to give in to the urge to vomit. The pain she'd had when waking after her arrival was gone, but the periodic bouts of nausea still hit her, although not as often. Eating was still an unpleasant experience, but at least she was able to hold down enough to put back on some of the weight she'd lost. 

She knew it had to have something to do with whatever they'd done to her while she was unconscious, but she still had no idea what. That uncertainty still left her anxious. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept through the night without a nightmare. 

"Debi!" 

She turned towards the door. Ceto was standing there, practically quivering with excitement. His tail was swinging back and forth, and if he weren't so very feline, she would have said he was wagging his tail. 

"What is it, Ceto?" she asked, more than a little puzzled. Her 'keepers' allowed her to be walked in the late afternoon only, and it wasn't lunchtime yet. 

Ceto rushed over to grab her hand and pulled her towards the door. Debi started to follow, but then worry hit. Why was the usual routine being disrupted? What were they planning to do to her? She stopped in her tracks. Or at least she tried to. Ceto was so much larger and stronger than her that he pulled her on for several feet before he realized that she was pulling back. He came to a stop and looked back at her, confused. 

"What's wrong, Debi?" he asked, his forehead all scrunched up. 

"Where are we going?" 

The fur-covered forehead smoothed out. "It's a surprise," he said brightly. 

"Is it a nice one?" she asked. 

"Doctor Ericks says it is," Ceto said, looking confused again. "It's waiting down the hall." 

Debi bit her lip, then decided to go along for now. Doctor Ericks was one of the few scientific types that she'd met in the facility who seemed to think of her as a person and not a lab specimen, so maybe it _was_ going to be a nice surprise. Besides, considering where she was, she didn't exactly have a choice. She would just have to hope for the best. 

"All right," she said and threaded her fingers through Ceto's much larger ones. He brightened up again and led her down a series of hallways, ending up in a bright room near the exit to the courtyard. She'd passed by it in the past but had never been allowed to go in. 

This time, Ceto opened the door and waited for her to go through. 

Inside, there was a woman waiting for them, pacing back and forth in a very familiar way. Debi's eyes started to prickle. 

"Mommy?" she said softly, her voice cracking. 

The woman spun around and froze. "Debi?" 

"Mommy!" 

An instant later, she was wrapped in her mother's arms and they were both crying. 

July 2002 


	3. Part Two

**The Sentinel Project  
Part Two   
by Lianne Burwell**

  
Suzanne McCullough had been terrified when she'd been separated from Harrison and Ironhorse. She hadn't been told a thing; just loaded into a plane and flown God only knew where. The window shades had been kept down, so she didn't know even which direction they'd gone. However, when she got off the plane, the heat and humidity told her she was probably somewhere in South or Central America. They hadn't flown long enough to reach another continent, and it didn't _feel_ like any place in the States. 

From the airport, she'd been driven in a car with the passenger seat completely blacked out so that she couldn't see the surrounding landscape. When they'd come to a stop several hours later and the car door had been opened, she'd found herself in an old-fashioned courtyard in front of an elaborate Spanish-style mansion, complete with red tile roof. It looked like a high-class resort or a millionaire's holiday getaway. 

But despite the old-world exterior, the interior was completely modern. The hum of a generator filled the air and the air-conditioning was cranked up high, making her shiver. There was something about the place that said 'lab' to her; an antiseptic smell that was more psychological than real. 

She'd been taken down one wing overlooking a large garden that filled the area between the two wings leading off the main part of the building, then gestured into a room. It was a pleasant sort of room, full of sunshine from the large windows, with furniture made of wicker painted white and brightly colored cushions. The seats looked comfortable, but she'd stayed standing. She didn't trust the people who'd brought her here, and she wasn't about to let down her guard. Instead, she'd ended up pacing for what felt like an hour, wondering when she was going to find out why she'd been brought there. 

Then the door opened. 

The first thing she noticed was the man, assuming he actually _was_ as male as he looked. He was very tall and muscular. He was also covered with black fur. His face was more cat that human and he had a tail. He looked fearsome, and yet there was a gentleness to his face. Somehow, he reminded her of Vincent, the half-man, half-lion whose people had helped them during their long fight with the Mothren, offering them refuge and support. 

"Mommy?" 

Then she noticed the girl next to him, dwarfed by his size, and all speculation faded. 

"Debi?" She found it hard to believe her eyes. Her daughter looked pale and thin, but otherwise healthy. 

"Mommy!" 

The daughter she'd worried about for weeks flew into her arms and Suzanne burst into tears, holding her daughter as tightly as she could. 

* * *

The leader of the squad checked his men. They were all dressed to blend into the scenery. All were alert, and weapons were ready, both lethal and non. Masks were waiting to be drawn down over faces. Good. In the unlikely event that there were witnesses who escaperd, they would be unable to identify anyone. 

"The targets are in place," he said, pulling his own mask down over his features. The patches over his eyes were perfectly clear to him, but the same flat black as the rest of the mask to anyone looking at him. The others followed his example. "Remember, they are to be taken alive. If anyone kills a target, it's worth _all_ our lives. Understood?" 

His team all nodded. It had been well-explained to them that their targets were worth more to the organization than they were. That was fine. They were soldiers. They would get the job done. It was why they were paid a small fortune. 

"All right, let's go." 

With that, the men melted into their surroundings, headed towards where the targets waited. The plan was perfect. They had practiced, taking every contingency into consideration. All that was left was to do it. 

Failure was not an option. 

* * *

Stanley Raymond Kowalski, former Chicago cop and current explorer/adventurer/unemployed bum woke up not long after dawn. Back in Chicago, he rarely woke up before eight in the morning and not even then if he could at all avoid it. But now that he didn't have a job, he was waking up at ungodly hours and _enjoying_ it. 

The main reason for that sat out in front of their tent, cooking a large breakfast over an open fire with a pot of fresh coffee sitting on a stone next to him. 

"Morning," Stan said, heading towards the nearby stream to brush his teeth and wash his face before kissing his lover. Fraser said that morning breath didn't bother him, but it did bother Stan. He wanted to be as fresh as possible for that first kiss of the day. 

Returning from slaying the evil mouth beast, his face clean if not shaved, Stan grasped Fraser's face between his hands and pulled him in for a long, deep kiss. He really liked being able to do that without wondering what people would think. They hadn't seen another soul in nearly a week. 

"Morning, Fraze," he said when he finally pulled back, echoing the bright smile on the Mountie's face. "What's up for the day?" 

"Well, I thought that after breakfast that we should go into town. We need a few more things if we're going to get the cabin ready for winter. As well, your citizenship papers should have arrived by now." 

"Sounds good to me." Citizenship papers meant that _legally_ he could stay here with Frasier. After that, they might take a quick trip back to Chicago long enough to grab the few possessions he wanted to hang onto out of storage and ship them north. By that time, the cabin would be completely finished. 

After the business with Muldoon and his arms smuggling operation had drawn them up to the Arctic circle, Fraser had decided to stay in the north, and he'd asked Stan to stay with him. The expression on his face had been heart- rending; he'd obviously expected his lover to say no. Not that there'd been any chance of _that_ happening. Fraser was the best thing that had happened to him in his life, even better than Stella. If Fraser had announced that he was heading to the South Pole, Stan would have bought a tux and gone with him. _His_ worry had been that Fraser was going to say that he _didn't_ want him to stay. 

They'd spent the next few months, until late spring, retracing the path of some old explorer that Fraser had told him about. They never did find the hand of Franklin from the old song, but neither of them cared. They'd spent the time learning to live with each other without the distractions of job or friends or even just the hustle and bustle of a busy city. 

Once spring had come, they'd headed for the burnt out shell of a cabin that had belonged to Fraser's dad, years ago. According to Fraser, his old partner Vecchio had promised to help rebuild the cabin, back before he'd gone undercover. Then he'd vanished, first for the job, then off to Florida with Stan's ex-wife Stella of all people. His loss was Stan's gain. And he better not show up any time soon. Fraser was still hurting from Vecchio abandoning him, and he wasn't about to let the Italian hurt him any more. 

Stan enjoyed working with Fraser on the cabin. He was learning all sorts of new stuff. Carpentry, plumbing, stone-laying—he hadn't know how to do any of it before, but he'd thrown himself into it enthusiastically. He'd gotten bruised and scraped and he still ached in places he'd never even known he had, but it was been worth it. The cabin felt like _home_. 

Now it was late fall—they'd had a couple small snowfalls already, although they'd had quickly melted—and the cabin was almost finished. In fact, they could live in it right now, but they were still sleeping in the tent. It might be a little colder, but it was so much fun to sleep snuggled up together in the one large sleeping bag, sharing body heat. Especially since the best way to share body heat was skin to skin. 

In the meantime, Fraser was still on leave, although the RCMP had promised to post him locally. Stan had applied for Canadian citizenship, and as soon as it came through, he could find a job in town. It wasn't much, the local population being only a few hundred, but it was... nice. Definitely friendly. 

They were nearly finished their breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast and coffee when the sound of frantic barking caught them off-guard. Fraser got to his feet, slowly turning in place, a serious expression on his face. 

"What is it?" Stan asked softly, automatically dropping into the soft tones that that kid, Sandburg, had taught him. "What do you hear?" 

For a moment, Fraser didn't answer. Then his eyes went wide with shock. "Down!" he shouted and tackled Stan, knocking them both to the ground. 

The air was knocked out of him and his vision went black. Trying to remember just how to breathe, Stan listened as Fraser jumped to his feet and tackled something else. He could hear shouts that told him that they were no longer alone in the north woods. 

And then there was silence. Through pure will, Stan forced himself up onto his knees, blinking to clear his eyes. His glasses had gone flying when he'd hit the ground, so he blinked, trying to focus. 

What he saw stopped his breath again. They were surrounded by a group of men dressed in camo and ski-masks without eye holes, all well-armed. Off to the side, Fraser was lying on the ground unmoving. Only the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed told him that the man was still alive. 

The gun held to Fraser's head told him whether or not the man _stayed_ that way depended on him. Stan raised his hands and waited for the strangers to tell him what was going to happen next. 

Two of their attackers pulled Fraser to his feet, easily supporting his weight between them. At a wave from the gun pointed at him, Stan got to his feet, careful to keep his hands in full view. Someone grabbed them and twisted them behind his back, cuffing them together with those adjustable plastic strips. The creep made no effort to be gentle about it either. 

"Ow! Watch it, would ya," Stan yelped. 

"Move it, boy, if you want to live," the one with the gun pointed at him said. An American accent, he noted. Definitely not local. 

As he was herded towards the trees, an explosion nearly knocked him off his feet. Turning his head, he saw the cabin they'd been working on for so long going up in flames. "Pity about that," the man said with a smirk in his voice. "The two of you should have been more careful when working on the oil heater." 

Stan felt a chill run down his spine. It would have been a while before anyone came looking for them anyway, but now it was going to look like they'd died in the fire. Somehow, he knew that these creeps were smart enough to put a couple bodies in the wreckage too. 

No one was going to look any further for them. 

As he stumbled through the trees as best he could with his hands tied behind his back, he could hear a mournful howling behind them. Diefenbaker would know the truth, but there was no one to listen to him. 

* * *

It was a scene that was repeated several times across the continent. 

In New York, a firefighter and his partner died in a tenement building fire, along with the family of four they'd been trying to rescue. Several of them were too badly burned to be identified. 

Evidence later showed that the fire was deliberate arson. No suspects were ever found. 

The same time, a psychiatrist was killed by a car bomb. Police believed it related to the unrest after the assassination attempts, since the doctor was of Arab descent. Again, no suspects were ever found. 

No one considered a connection between the two incidents, except for the select few who knew that the two men were lovers. 

In Texas, a Marine Sergeant and her grade-school teacher husband disappeared without a trace. When asked, the army said that the marine had been transferred to a different base, but there was no record of her ever arriving. Neither had any family to keep up pressure on the police, so the case was eventually labeled unsolved and set aside for more urgent cases. 

In northern Quebec, a small bush plane crashed, killing the pilot and both passengers, a park ranger and a Montreal therapist. An investigation found that recent repairs to the plane had been done with defective parts blamed for several other crashes. The families mourned, then went on with their lives after filing a class action lawsuit against the parts manufacturer and the company that had done the repairs. 

In every case where bodies were found, they were too badly damaged for positive identification. In most cases, even genetic tests weren't possible. No one considered that the incidents could be related or that some of the victims weren't really dead. 

* * *

Jim Ellison, could hear the pounding of his partner's heartbeat from down the hallway as he headed home from work. Worried, he quickened his steps, already reaching for his keys. 

Inside the loft apartment that they shared, he found his lover Blair putting down the phone, an almost panicked expression on his face. "What is it?" Jim asked, dropping the grocery bag he was carrying on the kitchen counter. Mentally, he was going through the possibilities. 

"I was worried about David, with all the tension right now," Blair said, referring to David Khalid, a psychiatrist he knew in New York, "so I gave him a call." 

"And?" 

"No answer. So I did some calling around. He was killed yesterday by a car bomb." 

"Oh, God." Jim dropped onto the sofa next to Blair and wrapped his arms around him. Jim didn't know David very well, but he'd liked the quiet, dark man. "Blair..." 

"It gets worst. I tried to call Brian." 

Jim was starting to get worried. Blair's expression said that things were bad. Really bad. "And?" 

"According to his captain, he and his partner got trapped inside a burning building that suddenly flared. They were killed, along with the trapped family they were trying to reach. They haven't identified the bodies yet." 

Jim closed his eyes. In a way, it was relief. He knew that Brian wouldn't want to survive David's death any more than he would want to survive Blair's. "Blair, that's awful," he started to say. 

Blair cut him off. "Jim, it's not just them. I've been calling all afternoon. I can't reach _anyone_." He didn't specify which 'anyones' he'd been calling: That was implicit. "This is not good," he added, unnecessarily. 

Jim was already thinking, already planning. He reached over Blair for the cell-phone. "I'm calling Simon. If someone's snatching Sentinels and Guides..." He didn't finish the sentence. This was something they'd worried about for years. If someone found out about them, someone with an interest in _using_ them, then they were all in danger. He'd already been worrying about this, ever since Dr. Gallagher had disappeared soon after she'd been visited by the newest Sentinel they knew of, Harrison Blackwood. The group's hotel room had been blown up, and while Jim knew that none of them had died in the explosion, they hadn't heard anything about the group since then. 

"The only thing I don't understand is _how_ they were found," Blair was muttering to himself as Jim dialed his captain. "We're the only thing they have in common, and I keep all my files coded." That was something he'd started after Alex Barnes had used his tapes to find out about Jim. That experience had taught him the importance of keeping everyone anonymous, even in his private notes. 

"Blair." Jim put down the phone down. 

"Did you get a hold of Simon?" Blair asked. The resigned tone in his voice said that he knew very well that Jim hadn't. 

"Jammed," Jim said, getting to his feet. Already, he was scanning the building with his hearing. After nearly five years of working with Blair, using his enhanced senses was second nature, and he didn't like what they were telling him. 

There were gunmen coming up the stairs and more outside in the alleyway beneath the fire-escape. There was even one on the roof, no doubt in case they tried to leave through the skylight. He couldn't believe that no one had noticed yet, but then the weather had been unusually wet and unpleasant for several days, so not many people were outside. That, combined with the twilight gloom, was working in their attackers' favor. Jim hoped it kept that way. Somehow he didn't doubt that these men were willing to kill any witnesses. 

Jim cursed himself for not having noticed the trap as he came in. They had to have been around the building before he arrived, but he'd been so intent on getting upstairs for a little loving that he hadn't been paying attention to his surroundings. 

"Jim?" Blair's heart was racing even faster than before, but he wasn't panicking. Despite the circumstances, Jim felt a flash of pride in his partner. 

He shook his head, though. He wished he had a brilliant plan, but whoever was coming had covered all their bases. "We're boxed in," he said as the sound of a lock being forced came from the door. "And there's too many to fight off." 

He gave Blair a fast hug and a hard kiss. Then they got to their feet. 

It looked like their worst fears were about to be realized. 

August 2002 


	4. Part Three

**The Sentinel Project  
Part Three   
by Lianne Burwell**

  
"Mulder, are you insane?" 

"No, Scully, I'm not insane," Mulder said patiently, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Scully had taken the news that he was heading out with Krycek to contact some of the man's contacts just about as well as he'd expected. 

"Then what the hell do you think you're doing?" Scully was a tiny woman, but while her hair was redder than when they'd first met—not that he was suicidal enough to comment on her decision to dye her hair—it was an appropriate color choice. 

"I told you—" 

She cut him off. "Yes, yes, I know. Krycek needs to contact some people and they'll only talk to him face to face. No problem. He can go to hell for all I care. That doesn't explain why _you're_ going with him." 

"Scully—" 

"And do _not_ tell me it's because you're in love with him, because he certainly isn't in love with you." 

Mulder felt the muscles in his face tighten with anger. "And why not? Am I _that_ unlovable?" 

She winced, no doubt remembering the time when he'd told her that he was in love with _her_ and she'd laughed in his face. "We're talking about Krycek," she said gently, as if she were talking to a child or a mental defective. "He's a killer." 

"And killers can't be in love?" 

"Not this one," she almost spat before talking a deep breath. "Mulder, you've hated him for so long, how can you change your mind so quickly?" 

Mulder leaned back against a handy wall and crossed his arms over his chest. "I haven't hated him in a long time," he said softly. "Not since Tunguska, I think. I just wasn't sure _what_ I felt until..." He stopped. 

"Until what?" 

He sighed. "Until I overheard him having sex with Kincaid and realized that I was jealous. It scared the hell out of me. That's one of the reasons why I turned myself over to Spender. But while I was locked up at the Center, I had a lot of time to think. I want Alex, I have Alex, and I sure as hell am not giving him up." His lips tightened and his jaw was thrust out belligerently. 

He could see by Scully's expression that she didn't understand, and more importantly, she didn't _want_ to understand. She'd made up her mind about Alex years ago. And while Mulder could understand why she hated the man, she'd closed her mind completely to the idea that maybe the man was a little more than the monster she'd labeled him in her mind. Sure, Alex was never going to be a candidate for sainthood, but neither was he a demon. 

"Scully," he said with a sigh. "This isn't a debate. This is what is going to happen. Alex and I are going to go find some of his contacts and see if we can't find out what's going on inside the Consortium. I'd like you to stay here with Jarod and Broots, at least until they identify this Mexican facility in the records Broots copied from the Center." 

"Assuming that it _is_ in those files," Scully broke in, her face pinched into a disapproving expression. Mulder wondered just when she'd become such a defeatest. 

"Assuming," Mulder said with a nod, acknowledging the fact that it might _not_ be there. "Also, I've left messages for the Gunmen. I'll leave one of the modified laptops with you. If they respond, you can let me know. And with any luck, they might even know what's happened to Skinner," he added as an incentive. 

While he might have been clueless about Alex's feelings for him, he hadn't been as blind about his partner's feelings for their boss, although Alex, for some reason, was convinced that they were aimed at him. And now that he'd had his eyes opened about men as sexual possibilities for him, he had to admit that he could see Skinner's appeal. Not that he would consider making a pass at the man. For one thing, Skinner was so straight it wasn't funny. As well, while he knew Skinner was physically attractive, he wasn't sure he would want to spend his spare time with the man; Skinner was just too damned intimidating. 

Besides, Alex was more than enough for him, so if Scully wanted Skinner, she was welcome to him. Maybe it would mellow her out, although he wasn't betting on it. 

Slowly, Scully softened. She still looked upset, but she had stopped yelling. "Fine," she said. "It's not like I can go anywhere by myself," she added with a sigh. 

Mulder winced. "I'm sorry about that," he said, all his frustration disappearing in a rush of guilt. "It's my quest that dragged you into this..." 

Scully quickly waved off his apology. "I've had plenty of chances to get out. If I didn't believe in your quest, I could have ended my involvement back when they separated us the first time." 

She turned around and walked over to the counter to pour herself another cup of coffee. She sipped it for a moment before turning back to him. "I don't regret being involved. I still think you're making a mistake, though." She sighed. "But obviously I'm not going to be able to change your mind. Just promise me you'll watch yourself." 

Mulder crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her. She was stiff for a moment, the melted against him. He rested his cheek against her hair for a moment. "I promise." Then he stepped back and grinned at her. "Besides, I'm always careful, aren't I?" 

He ran for the door as she laughed, escaping before she could find anything to throw at him. He was glad that she was willing to accept, at least that little bit. She was his oldest friend, outside of the Gunmen, and he really didn't want to lose her. 

But if it came to a choice between her and Alex... He didn't have a clue what he would do. 

* * *

Broots stared intently at the computer screen as he set up the search parameters for the latest disk. With each disk searched, he refined his techniques, shortening the time required. Unfortunately, he'd gone through half the disks in the package over the last couple weeks without finding anything to lead them to the mysterious Mexican facility, and he was beginning to doubt that there _was_ anything to find in his downloaded copy of the Center's database. Still, he had to try. 

Step one was to look for any reference to Mexico. He'd collected a list of place names in Mexico—in case the files didn't mention the country by name—as well as some possibly appropriate phrases in Spanish and the native languages, as well as names from mythology: Anything that might have been used as a codename for a scientific facility. 

Once the search engine had found all files that matched the parameters, it passed the results to a context organizer. That piece of code searched through each file, looking for keywords, then organized the results list by subject. 

However, while that was all well and fine, the next step was the one that took the longest: He had to go through the context list and open every probable file and check it manually. If he didn't find anything there, he would even go on to the improbable ones. You never knew where that critical bit of information would be hiding. 

But in the end, would he really recognize the information he was looking for when he found it, if he found it? That was the one thing that really worried him. 

On the other hand, did he really have anything better to do? Since the blow-up at the Center, he'd been basically homeless. The biker types had given a home, if you could call the series of safe houses they'd been in 'homes.' And the other guys—Krycek and Mulder, at least—had given him a purpose, a job, which helped to lessen the anxiety that came from knowing that his former employers would probably kill him in a heartbeat if they got the chance. At least he'd had a couple letters from Debbie. His daughter was the one bright light in his life, and while he hated having to send her into hiding in another country, the way things were going she would be safer in Canada than here. 

Broots scanned his settings one last time, then clicked the start button and pushed back from the desk. The laptop sitting on top of it started to whir as the disk spun. Broots sighed. 

"How long is that going to take?" 

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the comment. Turning around, he found Jarod standing in the doorway, leaning against the jam with his arms folded across his chest. He wore blue jeans and a white undershirt that was tight enough to be a second skin. Broots felt his mouth go dry. He'd always known that Jarod was an attractive man in an intellectual sense, but now... 

Now he'd learned that he found the man attractive on _every_ level. He'd never thought he'd feel that way about another man, but Jarod, with his lack of inhibitions, had broken past the gender barrier and made Broots feel things he'd pretty much given up on ever feeling again. And to think that Jarod had been a virgin, a complete innocent in every way, when he'd escaped the center. 

"Four hours, maybe more," he said, looking up at the man he'd risked his life to smuggle information to, the man who'd saved his life without even asking for anything in return. 

"Good." Jarod stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. "I can think of a few ways to pass the time." 

As Jarod pulled him out of his chair and started to maneuver him towards the bed set against the wall, deftly stripping him along the way while making a meal of his mouth, Broots had to agree. 

He could definitely think of a few ways too. 

Then he forgot about thinking altogether and just went with feeling. 

* * *

The next morning, Mulder and Krycek packed up a few changes of clothing and a laptop into the saddle-bags of a couple of bikes belonging to the Hunters. Fake Ids had been supplied, and Kincaid hoped they'd hold up to close inspection. Before everything had gone down, he would have bet good money on them, but now, with the threat of martial law hanging over them, even the best fakes might not be good enough. The entire country was twitchy, especially the cops, and when armed men got twitchy, people got dead. 

According to Krycek, the two men would be heading to Chicago first, which would be a long trip from Texas. Most major cities were going to be trouble, thanks to the so-called terrorist threat. The country was gearing up to a war footing, although no one actually knew who they were fighting against. But Krycek figured that if he and Mulder avoided D.C., they should be pretty safe. They were going to travel by day, rather than taking the risk of being pulled over for violating curfew. The bikes were going to give them enough trouble, although they were dressed more like a couple of yuppies out for a tour rather than hardcore bikers that might be gang members. 

They mounted up and headed off. Everyone else stood on the farmhouse porch and watched them go. Then, once they were out of sight and even the dust cloud had faded from view, they turned around and headed back inside. 

Scully started a pot of water boiling for coffee. From the set of her shoulders, she wasn't happy, and Kincaid wasn't crazy enough to do anything to attract her attention. She had the feel of a stick of old dynamite that could go off if you even looked at it cross-eyed. 

The kettle was whistling, and she poured the boiling water into a mug with a spoonful of instant coffee. She added cream, but skipped the sugar, he noted. Maybe that explained her disposition. Then she started, looking a little guilty. "Does anyone else want any?" she said a little weakly. 

"Nah, I think I'll get something a little stronger," Kincaid said, even though it was barely mid-morning. There was a half bottle of scotch in one of the cupboards, and he poured himself a shot from it. It was smooth and mellow going down, and left a nice burn in his stomach. 

Scully was staring into her cup like it held the secrets of the ages, not doing more than taking the occasional sip. Suddenly, without warning, She through the mug at a wall, narrowly missing Jarod. The ceramic shattered, and hot coffee went everywhere. While everyone stared in shock, she stomped from the room. 

"What's her problem?" Broots asked in a bewildered tone. 

Kincaid didn't say anything. He just poured himself another shot. 

* * *

Debi woke in the middle of the night with a feeling like gas, and was confused for a moment about where she was. The room was completely unfamiliar. Then she remembered her mother's arrival. While they'd been talking in the sunroom, her few possessions had been moved to a small suite. Two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a sitting room. The cameras were still there, though, and just as obvious as before. It was just a new cell with new companionship. 

Unable to get back to sleep, she went into the sitting room that by day had a nice view of the gardens at the center of the complex and sat down on one of the wicker chairs. If you ignored the cameras and locked doors, you could almost believe that you were in a tropical resort. Through the door to the other bedroom, she could see her mother sleeping peacefully, her hair, still that unnatural red, spread out over her pillow. she was twitching in her sleep, like she was having a bad dream. 

Debi knew that she should have felt guilty that her mother was now stuck in this place with her, but the truth was, she was glad. It was damned selfish of her, but she needed her mother, more than she'd ever needed anyone before. Everything had been moving so fast, and then suddenly she was in a strange place, and they'd done something to her, and she was scared. 

Tears were streaming down her face now, and when she tried to stop crying, she couldn't. She never cried. She'd survived so much in her life that the tears had been purged out of her. She was tough and strong, an FBI agent, a survivor of an alien invasion before she was fifteen. People had tried to kill her and failed. And here she was, blubbering like a baby with a stubbed toe. 

"Debi?" Her mother squeezed into the chair next to her, wrapping her arms around her. Debi hadn't even noticed her come into the room. 

"I'm sorry. It's all my fault," Debi sobbed into her mother's shoulder, her arms wrapped around her stomach. The stomach upset that had woken her was getting steadily worse. 

"No it isn't," her mother said, rocking her back and forth. "A lot of people are to blame, but you aren't. Oh, baby, what have they done to you?" 

The question brought out all the fears she'd been trying to ignored. "I don't know. They did something, but they won't tell me what. They do tests and inject me with things, but they never talk to me. Ceto is the only one who talks to me, and he doesn't know anything." 

Her mother's arms tightened around her at the same time as her stomach cramped. "Debi?" 

She tried to answer, but the second cramp was far worse than the first. 

She screamed. 

* * *

Suzanne's heart nearly stopped when Debi doubled over and screamed. She clutched her daughter tightly, easing down to the ground. She pulled at Debi's nightgown, trying to get it out of the way so that she could figure out what was wrong, but Debi curled up into a tight ball, moaning in pain. 

Before she could decide what to do, the locked door that lead out to the corridor burst open, and a stream of people came rushing in. An oversized man wearing some sort of weapon grabbed her and dragged her away, kicking and screaming. Other than that, they ignored her. 

People in lab coats hovered over Debi, hooking her up to portable monitors and drip bags. A gurney was brought in, and she was lifted onto it. While Suzanne shouted questions that went unanswered, her daughter was wheeled out of the room. 

Then the goon restraining her tossed her across the room, and followed the scientists out. The door slammed shut, and she heard the final click of it locking her in, with no idea what was happening to her daughter. 

Suzanne pushed up to a sitting position and leaned back against the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees, and waited for someone to come tell her something. Anything. 

Please? 

August 2002 


	5. Part Four

**The Sentinel Project  
Part Four   
by Lianne Burwell**

  
Harrison sighed and relaxed back into the mattress. They'd been in their new cell for a couple of weeks now. At least this time, it didn't seem so much like a cell. The room was more like a comfortable hotel room with a closet full of clean clothing, all in their sizes, and an attached bathroom. Every day, they were allowed out for exercise in the large, well-equipped gym down the hall while the room was cleaned and the linens were changed. 

However, the lack of windows, the doors locked from the outside and the armed men watching them while they exercised all combined to make sure that they never forgot their current status as prisoner. They were never allowed to see anything that might let them figure out where they were, although there were clues. He had the feeling that they were well underground, but there was still a faint scent of salt in the air, so they had to be somewhere near an ocean. Instinct was telling him Atlantic, although he couldn't explain why. Still, all in all, it was like a club fed prison. 

Paul came out of the bathroom, dripping with the cool water of his shower. He dropped his towel and climbed into the bed next to Harrison, goose bumps already rising from the air-conditioning. They'd quickly gotten over their natural modesty, knowing that they were being monitored. The need to touch and to make love was just too strong. 

Harrison lifted his head, listening for a moment. "More arrivals," he said softly. "Two of them sound unhappy." 

Paul winced. This was the fifth time this had happened since their arrival at their new home. Each time, two more prisoners had been delivered. Whispered conversations had told them that all the new arrivals had been Sentinel-Guide pairs, although they hadn't met any in person; they were carefully kept separate. 

Then Harrison's eyes went wide with shock. "Ellison and Sandburg," he said. 

"What?" 

"The new arrivals. It's Ellison and Sandburg." 

The made Ironhorse sit up. "Crap. Who are these people? They're kidnapping people right and left, even cops now, and no one even notices? This is crazy!" He thumped his fist against the mattress. 

"Not just that," Harrison pointed out, keeping part of his attention on the two men they'd met in Cascade as they were walked to another room down the hall by armed guards who refused to answer the angry questions being shot at them. "Some of the people brought in are Canadian, so they're kidnapping people from other countries. And one of them was saying his partner was a Mountie," he reminded Paul. 

"These people are really confident," his partner said with a frown. 

"The only question is, why start now? And why Sentinels and Guides?" 

And why let them know? Harrison could think of several easy ways to make sure that none of the kidnap victims knew about the others. White noise generators, putting them on different levels of this underground facility, putting them into different facilities altogether. Instead, even though they knew that they were being monitored closely, they were allowed to use their enhanced hearing to communicate between cells, even though none of them had met face to face yet. A marine, a park ranger, a Mountie, a cop, a firefighter, and more. A strange group, and one where you would think that _someone_ would notice their disappearance. Of course, for all they knew, the disappearances _had_ been noticed, but no one knew enough to put two and two together. After all, there was no apparent connection between any them. 

The door was locked behind their new neighbors, and they could both hear the guards as they headed back down the hallway to where the elevators were. They didn't chatter or gossip the way most men in their place would. Obviously they'd been warned to keep their mouths shut, since they never answered questions or even responded to any comments from their charges. 

It was still more than an hour until lunch, and the exercise shifts that started an hour after that. Harrison settled down on the bed, and Paul curled up at his side. Both of them had learned patience over the years. Sooner or later, _someone_ was going to tell them just what they were doing there. The only question was, would they like that explanation? 

Harrison had the sinking feeling that they wouldn't. 

* * *

Jerome Michaels settled into the chair behind the desk at the heart of the country that was the center of the world. The man who sat in that chair was arguably the most powerful man in the world, and he liked the feeling. 

There were people out there who would say that he hadn't earned it, not having been elected to the oval office, but they knew better than to say it publicly. Right now, criticizing the White House would get you fired, if not lynched. With the Vice-President dead and the President in critical condition, the country needed to stand behind its government in its fight against the foreign threat, the papers said. 

Of course, that threat wasn't really foreign at all. And the parts that were, well, they were _very_ foreign, Jerome thought to himself with a grin. So foreign that there wasn't a chance that the FBI, the CIA or Military Intelligence would ever figure it out. 

There was a knock at the door, and the Chief of Staff came in. He had a sour look on his face, and that lifted Jerome's spirits even higher. The man hated his guts—a feeling that was very much mutual—and having to report to Michaels was killing the man, especially since Jerome was using him as basically a secretary at the moment. 

"What is it, Jackson?" he snapped, just to see the man's jaw clench as he tried to avoid saying something that could get him arrested. Actually, Jerome had enough manufactured evidence to have the man behind bars in a heartbeat, but he preferred to keep him where he was. If he ever got tired of playing with the man, he could always use those papers. 

"The Director of the FBI is here, sir," Jackson said, nearly spitting the last word. Still, he was pretty good at covering up his feelings, Jerome had to give him that. He was also very good at his job, which is why he was still around, other than for entertainment. "He has a report into the investigation." 

"Good. Send him in." 

Jackson disappeared, and Jerome stood, carefully schooled his features into an expression more appropriate for a man holding a position he hadn't expected to, and in trying times. 

"Director Kersh, I hope you have good news for me," he said, moving forward to shake the hand of the man entering the office. 

"Well, I don't know if it counts as good news," the other man said. He still looked a little shaken by the title, as well he should. It had only been his for less than a week. "I'm afraid that we've had to arrest more than fifty agents based on the evidence in my predecessor's personal files. Nearly twenty more have vanished, including Assistant Director Skinner and his agents, Mulder and Scully. I'm still finding it hard to believe that the FBI had been compromised to such an extent," he added, shaking his head. 

"I must admit, I found it hard to believe myself," Jerome said with a carefully measured sigh. "Especially that someone with terrorist ties could work his way into the FBI, all the way up to Director, without being caught... Well, the mind boggles. Obviously security has become lax in previous years, but that will have to change. Has there been any more luck in tracking down the people behind the assassination attempts?" 

Kersh shook his head. "Some, but mostly at the lower levels. The people at the top of this conspiracy have been very clever about covering their tracks. The groups we've captured know very little. All we can say at this point is that there is an organization that appears to have been directing terrorist groups of various creeds around the world, possibly for decades. Unfortunately, they've covered their tracks extremely well." 

"Well, I'm sure I can count on you and the Director of the CIA to work together to uncover the snakes in the grass. Between the two of you, I'm sure that security in this country can tighten up, and terror organizations around the world can be brought down. It is something that should have been done years ago. Thank you, Director Kersh." 

The man was practically preening under the praise as Jerome escorted him to the door. As soon as he was gone, though, the serious expression vanished, and a sly grin took its place. At times it amazed him at just how easy to manipulate people. 

As for the conspiracy Kersh and his counterpart at the CIA were tracking, sooner or later it would lead them to Spender and his old men. As for Jerome, and the people in the Consortium who supported him... Well, their connections to the Consortium had been erased. Even at that moment, the last of any paper trails were being systematically destroyed. When the time came, Spender would go down, and anything he might have left would be dismissed as a traitor's attempts to besmirch the White House. 

And when everything was done, Jerome would have a clear road to being elected to the office he currently held temporarily. And then his real work would begin. 

Because Jerome Michaels had no intention of merely holding office for only the two terms that the law allowed for. In fact, when the time came, he didn't plan on giving up power at all. And he had allies that would help him in his plans. 

"They have not yet found the ones who destroyed our base?" 

Jerome turned to face the head of his Secret Service detail. It looked like a human, but he knew better. The body of a fit man in his thirties was actually an artificial construct, housing one of the aliens that had backed the Consortium until three humans, presumably with help, managed to destroy the one link between Earth and the alien home world. "Spender has them, that's all I know. Whatever base he's holding them at, it's one that he's managed to keep a secret. But sooner or later, we'll flush him out. Then you will have what you want." 

"Good. And we will find the traitor who helped them. She will learn that the will of the Collective cannot be so easily stopped." 

Jerome nodded respectfully, although inside he was anything but. Maybe the plans of the so-called 'Collective' would be restarted, but there would be some changes this time. Jerome Michaels had not intention on going back to being a flunky. 

And if he got his hands on those aces up Spender's sleeve, then maybe, just maybe, the 'Collective' would be dancing to _his_ tune. 

* * *

When morning came, Suzanne was still sitting on the floor, her eyes burning with fatigue, still fixed on the door. No one had come to tell her what was happening with her daughter, and she was getting pissed. She wanted to know what had happened to her daughter and she wanted to know _now_. 

Calmly, deliberately, she got to her feet and walked over to the coffee table. It was made of a woven rattan, so it was reasonably light. Still, it made a satisfying crash when it hit the wall. She picked it up again, this time by one leg, and swung it at the window overlooking the calm and peaceful garden, softly lit by the rising sun. The window wasn't glass, since it didn't show an intention of shattering. The table, on the other hand, cracked nicely. Grinning wildly, she swung again. 

Once the table was reduced to small pieces, she moved on to the chairs. Still not getting the response she wanted, she used it as a weapon against the camera up in the corner of the room, surveying the entire place for the bastards behind this. The first chair wasn't enough to destroy it, but the second finished the job. 

By this time she was hitting a full head of steam, and anything that got in her way was fair game. Furniture, decorations. The sound of the bathroom mirror shattering made her bare her teeth in a parody of a grin, while the camera revealed behind it made her even angrier. She ripped it out by the cables, then smashed it. She hoped it was expensive. 

The main door was opening as she left the bathroom. She had held onto the camera, and started to swing it by its cables, ready to use it as a weapon. They'd probably tranquilize her before she could hurt anyone, but she was going to do her best. 

But the bastards had outmaneuvered her. Instead of a group of indistinguishable orderlies—or whatever the equivalent was around here—they'd sent the cat-man that her daughter called Ceto. He was carrying a breakfast tray, and looking around at the destruction with an upset expression. The only pieces of furniture in the main room still in one piece were the large table and the sofa. The table had been too heavy a wood for her to do more than tip over, and the sofa was the same, but the cushions were scattered around the room. The fabric had been too tough for her to rip, and there wasn't anything she could use to cut them. 

Ceto turned large, confused eyes towards her. "Where do I put the tray?" he asked in a bewildered little boy voice. 

That was all that was necessary to destroy her anger, like a pinprick to a balloon. Ceto was obviously too simple to understand what was going on, so it wouldn't be fair to take things out on him. Besides, Debi liked him. Suzanne sighed, and dropped the camera. 

It took a little work to get the table upright again, since Ceto wasn't willing to set the tray on the floor long enough to help her. Once it was, though, Ceto set the tray down—breakfast for one, she noted—and went to reassemble the sofa, muttering softly to himself the entire time. Looking down at the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, with whole wheat toast on the side—her favorite kind of breakfast, damnit—Suzanne's stomach embarrassed her by growling. 

She felt guilty for it, but she picked up a triangle of toast and bit into it. It was a little cold, but she finished it quickly, then took up the fork and started in on the eggs. She wasn't going to do Debi or herself any good if she starved herself, she reasoned. 

Ceto was still fretting though. While she ate, he was collecting all the debris and piling it in a corner near the door, where presumably it could be removed quickly. "They're sending new furniture," he told her as he passed her, his arms full of strips of rattan. A few small pieces were stuck to his fur, giving him a mussed look. Suzanne couldn't help smiling. Ceto was too gentle for this place. In that, he was very much like Vincent. He just didn't have the keen intelligence of the other cat-man 

"Why?" she asked, curious. This wasn't going the way she was expecting. She'd expected violence, and people she could lash out at. Instead, she got this over-eager child in a man's body. 

"Because Debi needs someplace to sit," he said earnestly. 

That one sentence had her sagging in relief. "Is she all right? What happened to her? When are they bringing her back?" 

Ceto's ears flattened back at the barrage of questions. "Dr. Jeff says she will be okay, and I need to clean up quickly because she'll be back this afternoon." 

"But what _happened_ to her?" Suzanne nearly wailed, even though she knew Ceto probably wouldn't know. 

But instead of just looking confused again, Ceto puffed up, his shoulders pushed back. He looked very happy, and even proud. "Debi is having a baby!" he said. And Suzanne's legs gave out under her. 

* * *

For the first time since their arrival, dinner wasn't delivered to their room. Instead, the door opened for four armed men, all wearing helmet that hid their faces. They waved, and after exchanging a quick glance, Harrison and Ironhorse obeyed. 

The hallways were empty other than them as they were herded towards a wing of the building that they'd never been in, until they finally arrived in a large room that was obviously usually used as a cafeteria. More armed guards stood at every exit from the room, making it clear that they were to stay put. All of them. 

Paul scanned the room, checking out the people inside. From the eclectic mix of clothing—everything from plaid flannel to olive drab to a rumpled suit that looked like Armani, or something equally expensive—he guessed that these were the rest of the abductees. Blair Sandburg was holding court in one corner while Jim Ellison held a whispered conversation with several others just confirmed that. 

Most of the others seemed to know each other, so there were suspicious glances there way as they entered the room. Sandburg, obviously sensing this, stood quickly. "Harrison, Ironhorse. Shit, they got you too?" 

"Got us, lost us, then got us again. Since then, we don't know what they've done with either Debi or Suzanne," Paul said, more than a touch bitter. The fact that they were even there was because of Katara. The android may have helped them stop her home dimension from moving in and taking over, but she certainly hadn't been what he would consider an ally. She'd used them, then dumped them right back in Spender's lap like a present just needing a big bow. If he ever saw her again, he was going to shoot first, ask questions later. Correction: he would just shoot. There wouldn't _be_ enough left of her to question. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, since you are all here, shall we begin?" 

Silence spread over the room like an oversized blanket, deadening all noise. Spender was standing at the door at the opposite end of the room. 

Perhaps this was when they would get some answers. 

September 2002 


	6. Part Five

**The Sentinel Project  
Part Five   
by Lianne Burwell**

  
By late afternoon, there was little sign of Suzanne's temper tantrum, other than the dents in the wall plaster. Electricians had already been in to install new cameras, including the one behind the mirror in the bathroom. Suzanne hadn't bothered protesting; she knew that it wouldn't do any good.

New furniture was set up around the room, just as flimsy as before. Now she realized that it had probably been chosen because it would break before it could be used as a proper weapon, other than those few pieces too large and unwieldy to be used. The bastards seemed to think of everything. Now she was left waiting, alone. Even Ceto was gone, and she found herself missing the company. Suzanne wasn't a very solitary person. Even when she'd been living alone in Cascade, she'd lived in an apartment building full of life and had socialized with her co-workers frequently. She wondered, briefly, what they thought of her disappearance. Was anyone even looking for her?

Part of her wished that Harrison and the others had never contacted her. It had been wonderful to see them all— especially Paul, whom she'd thought dead for so many years —but a small, selfish part of her would have preferred not to see any of them, not even her own daughter. She could have gone on with her life, never having to face another alien invasion, let alone government conspiracies. Instead, her second life had been destroyed just as surely as the first one had been.

Her anxiety levels were building again, and she started pacing. The urge to hit something was back, but she restrained herself. It had been made quite clear to her that if she made trouble, Debi would stay wherever she was. Behave, and her daughter would be returned to her. Simple punishment and reward. Crude, but effective.

The light outside was starting to dim when she finally heard the sound of voices in the hallway again. Knowing what was expected, she moved as far from the door as she could get while staying in the room. She had no intention of not being there.

The door opened, and two large men brought a gurney in. They eyed her suspiciously, then rolled the gurney into Debi's bedroom. There, they carefully transferred her daughter from the gurney to the bed and set up the IVs. Debi was very still, and Suzanne bit into her lower lip. As soon as the men left, she moved to sit on the side of the bed.

"Oh, sweetie. What have they done to you?" After Ceto's cheerful revelation, she'd started reexamining everything that had happened since her arrival at this place. Debi had been ill most mornings, but she'd complained of an acid stomach, so she'd put it down to stress. Perhaps even the beginnings of an ulcer. After all, she'd had an acid stomach herself. So she'd steered Debi towards foods that were easier on an upset stomach, and it had seemed to be helping.

Now, she was looking at that in a new light. The men hadn't covered Debi when they put her in the bed, and under the thin hospital gown, Suzanne could see that Debi's stomach was already showing a slight bulge, which disturbed her. Somehow, she didn't think that the people here would be quite so concerned about Debi if she'd been pregnant before her arrival—and surely Debi would have told her if that was the case. That meant that whatever the cause of the pregnancy, it was proceeding faster than was normal. For a human pregnancy, that is.

"mommy?"

The tiny whisper drew her attention back up to Debi's face. Her eyes were open, but they were dazed and confused. She looked like she'd been drugged.

"I'm here, sweetie," Suzanne said, brushing the wispy blond hair back from her daughter's eyes. Debi hadn't called her 'mommy' since she was a little girl, but in the last week, she'd done it twice, once when Suzanne had arrived, and now. That little lapse told her just how scared her daughter was.

And truth be told, Suzanne was getting pretty scared herself. What were the people in this place doing?

* * *

"Now, I suppose that you are all wondering just why you have been brought here." Spender smiled widely, amused by the turn of phrase. It was foolish, but one took one's pleasures where one could.

"You could say that," Blair Sandburg muttered to himself. The doctor was the shortest man in the room—and nearly the shortest person—but the amount of anger the man was radiating made him seem much larger than he was. He was a smart young man—much like another young man who'd interested Spender for many years—and he'd probably figured out that the only way that the group of people in the room could have been targeted was if his research had been tapped into. Not only that, but the only place he'd actually kept the _names_ was on his personal laptop and files he kept at home, all carefully encoded and password protected, and never connected to the phone line.

"Well, you could say that you have been brought here so that you can serve your country," Spender said, holding out his hands. Most of the people in the room were staring daggers at him.

"And which country would that be?" a woman at the back asked. She was tall, with dark brown hair, and a French Canadian accent. Marie Beaudaire was a psychiatrist from Montreal, so from her, it was a good question.

"The United States, of course, but can you really say that what effects us does not affect Canada?"

She didn't answer, but he knew the answer. Many people scoffed the American attitude that the world revolved around them, but in truth, it wasn't far off the mark. The world economy rose and fell with the American economy, and since the collapse of the Soviet Union, no other country was more powerful militarily. The White House spoke and the world jumped, either for or against.

And now, with a pretender in the Oval Office, that had become a severe problem. Michaels had always been a problem, too eager to act _now_ rather than wait. A common problem among the young and inexperienced.

"Now, as we all know, the people in this room have special... abilities that are valuable to the government. For that reason, you have all been invited here." That raised a chorus of snorts from around the room. "And it is in your best interests to cooperate."

"Why?" another woman said from one side wall. She was blonde and powerfully built. The man standing next to her, holding her hand, looked almost small next to her, even though he was actually quite tall, if slimly built.

"Sergeant Jeffries, I'm sure that you've been watching the news lately. Doctor Kahlid, you especially would have reason for that considering the paranoia that is sweeping the country. Mosques firebombed, anyone even vaguely Arab looking targeted. With the latest rumors that the IRA was also involved in the assassination, businesses with Irish names have been targets of vandalism. This country is slowly descending into chaos.

"And the truth is, none of the evidence being touted in the press is real. The man behind the assassination and the attempt on the President is the man who is currently occupying the Oval Office." He paused and waited for the inevitable protests to fade. It took several minutes. "No, I cannot give you proof that will stand up in a court of law. If I could, none of you would be here, and this crisis would be over. Instead, it is gaining steam as manufactured evidence appears at the right moments to fan the fires even higher. In a few more weeks, the US military will be sent into the middle east to extract the men supposedly behind the attack, despite their very real protests of innocence. And in the meantime, there will probably be another attack, just to make sure that no one objects. In fact, by that time, protesting the government will be considered high treason."

Spender walked over to the coffee maker and poured himself a cup, then sat down and lit a cigarette. "Right now, you've got two choices. You can help stop this. Or you can stay here. And believe me, the scientists have all sorts of ideas for experiments involving Sentinels and Guides. We are _not_ nice people, and it is in your best interests to work with us."

"Feel free to discuss among yourselves, but each of you needs to make a choice before you leave this room. And once that choice is made, there is no going back."

* * *

The twelve men and women clustered together in the center of the room, around one of the tables. The guards at the exits were carefully examined, and it was decided that trying to make a break for it was not going to work. That left the question of the choice given them by the man currently sitting at the edge of the room, casually smoking a cigarette.

"So, do we believe him?" a man asked. He was large in every sense of the word, but definitely muscle instead of fat. He had a healing cut on the side of the head, telling Paul that he probably hadn't come quietly.

Paul glanced at Harrison, but it was Ellison that answered. "I think we all agree that he was telling the truth," he said, and several of the group nodded. Paul assumed that they were the Sentinels. "So the question is, was it really the truth, or does he just believe it is?"

Paul tapped the table top softly. "We've seen a bit more of him than you have," he said, nodding to Harrison. "And after the last few weeks, I would believe just about anything. The only thing is, what the hell is he talking about?"

Ellison blinked, then frowned. "You haven't seen the news?"

Paul sighed. "We've been locked in a variety of small rooms since the last time you saw us. No TV or newspapers or radios. And no one talks about anything while in earshot of either of us. What is going on?"

"Two assassination attempts, simultaneous, done by sleeper agents in the secret service. The vice-president is dead, and the president is in critical condition in a hidden location. Like the man said, evidence has been released to the press that proves that middle-eastern terrorists are behind this. More recently, the IRA has been implicated as well. If he _is_ right, then this is one hell of a conspiracy."

"Shit," Paul muttered to himself. Unfotunately, as crazy as the story sounded, he believed it.

Harrison who snorted. "In that case, it wouldn't surprise me at all if this is the work of one of their own people, and they want us to clean up their mess," he said cynically, making Paul wince. This was the man who had once insisted on believing the best in people.

The others, who were all strangers to Paul, were watching them suspiciously. "Who are you two anyway?" the woman who had been identified as a Sergeant asked. "The rest of us have met, but we don't know you. How do we know that you aren't plants, since you know so much about these people?"

Paul and Harrison exchanged glances. "My name is Colonel Paul Ironhorse, and this is my partner," Paul said the word in a way that implied everything that they were to each other, "Doctor Harrison Blackwood. We just ran into Ellison and Sandburg a few weeks ago, but Ellison knew me back when he was in the military, so he should be able to vouch for me. And we don't really know _that_ much about these people. As for what we do know, it's a very long story. Too long for right now, since the guards are starting to look twitchy."

Twitchy was one way to describe them. Spender looked more relaxed, but he wasn't going to give them forever to debate.

Sandburg glanced around the group, meeting everyone's eyes in turn. "He's right. We need to make a choice fast. Does anyone have any comments?"

A slim Arab man spoke up this time. He was hanging onto the arm of the man with the head injury, although it looked like he was trying more to hold him up rather than looking for comfort himself. "I really don't see that we have a choice. Whether we believe him or not, it is clear that we either cooperate, or else. And I don't know about the rest of you, but I have no interest in finding out what that 'or else' entails."

"I've experienced some of that 'or else' already, I think, and I have no intention of going through it again," Harrison said firmly, and under the table, Paul squeezed his hand. The experiments that they'd been put through before being handed over to Katara had been annoying for him, but by the time they'd left Spender's hands, it wouldn't have taken much more to send the other man over the edge. The only thing that had been letting him hang onto his sanity was Paul's constant presence and coaching.

"I vote we cooperate, at least for the time being, as well," he said. It got him some more suspicious looks, but he ignored them. In their place, he'd be pretty damned suspicious too. For that matter, he didn't trust Spender any further than he could toss him, but like Harrison and the other man had pointed out, they didn't have much choice. But eventually...

They went around the table, and the others all agreed, with varying degrees of reluctance. Certainly, no one seemed thrilled by the idea of cooperating with an organization that didn't think twice of kidnapping people, even foreign nationals.

Decision made, they turned. Spender stubbed out the remains of his cigarette, even though he didn't have an ashtray, and stood up again. "Well?"

"If we cooperate, what happens after this crisis is over?" Sandburg asked.

Spender's eyebrow went up. "That will be decided when it actually _is_ over," he said, not bothering to make any fancy promises that none of them would believe anyway.

Ellison spoke for them all. "We're in. For now," he added ominously, his arms crossed over his chest. He'd changed a lot from the arrogant, but at the same time insecure, recruit that Paul remembered. He'd matured into a man who was a definite leader, and he managed to insert a wealth of threat into the four words.

"A wise decision."

"So, now what happens?"

"You go back to your rooms."

With that, Spender turned and left the room, and the guards stepped forward, guns held ready. He may have accepted their word, but he obviously wasn't going to trust them.

* * *

The trip to Chicago took longer than it normally would have, thanks to curfews and periodic roadblocks. Thankfully, the fake Ids they were carrying stood up to casual examination by bored local cops, but they knew better than to go near airports or anywhere else where there would be security cameras hooked up to computers with facial recognition software. Mulder had seen the software in operation often enough to know that while it wasn't foolproof, it would probably pick them out of a crowd, even if they were wearing disguises. No, better to stick to the roads.

Mulder leaned against one of the parked bikes while he waited for Krycek to check them into the motel. The place was pretty skuzzy looking, but Krycek said that he'd used it in the past, and the owners weren't going to ask any questions unless they got loud enough that someone called the police. It would be their base of operations for as long as they were actually in Chicago. This was where they would hunt down the first of Krycek's contacts.

Krycek left the small bungalow that was the motel's office, tossing a key up, then snatching it out of the air. "127," he said, tossing Mulder the key. "Right at the end of the row, backing out onto the open fields behind this place. It's almost dark, so you go get our stuff inside. I'll go grab some food. Any preferences?"

Mulder's stomach growled on cue. "Pizza," he said after a moment's thought. "That way, we've got something for breakfast too." It had been a while since he'd had cold pizza for breakfast, but it had also been a while since he'd eaten breakfast regularly.

Krycek nodded. "Pizza it is. Meat-lover's good with you?" Mulder nodded. "All right, see you in a few."

Krycek unhooked his saddlebags and set them on the ground, then climbed onto his bike and headed off. Mulder wanted to ask the man just how he planned to carry a pizza on a motorcycle, but Krycek was already out of earshot. Shaking his head, Mulder picked up Krycek's bags, then got onto his own bike. Balancing his burden was a little awkward, but he got the bike down to the end of the long, two-story building, and after a moment's thought, parked it around the end, where it wouldn't be visible from the street.

He unlocked the door carefully and eased it open, listening for any evidence that someone was waiting for him inside. There was nothing. Moving confidently, he dropped the bags on one of the two beds, then checked the rest of the room. The main room was standard for all hotels. There were two beds that were laughably called queen sized—their feet would be hanging over the end, yet again. The TV sat on top of the low chest of drawers. He turned it on and flipped channels until he found a news station. CNN, MSNBC, Fox News. It didn't matter which it was, these days, they were all saying the same politically correct things.

There was also a small table in the corner with two uncomfortable looking straight back chairs. The phone was on the bedside table sitting between the two beds. It had a jack for customers to plug their laptop modem into, but Mulder had no intention of using it. It was too easy to monitor.

The bathroom was equally ordinary, other than the fact that there was a window in the shower, overlooking the field behind the motel. It did lock from the inside, though, and Mulder made sure it was. It was also large enough for an adult male to fit through, Mulder noted, so if there _was_ trouble, they had a back way out. Nice.

As satisfied as he was going to get, Mulder kicked off his shoes and sat down on one of the beds, pulling over his laptop bag. He pulled out the computer and connected it to his cell phone. It wasn't perfect security, but there were no records that could tie it to him, or anyone associated with him.

Mulder sighed as he logged onto the net. He'd never been the most trusting of people—his motto was 'trust no one', after all—and the list of people he actually did trust numbered two. But, on the other hand, he'd never been quite as paranoid as he'd become in the last few weeks. Of course, the entire world was becoming paranoid, but that didn't comfort him. He wanted things to go back to normal, and soon. He wanted to be back in his basement office, going off to investigate werewolves and vampires, with Scully debunking all of his theories. The only change he wanted was a hot and ready Alex waiting for him at home.

With that pleasant thought, he went back to checking the boards for messages.


	7. Part Six

**The Sentinel Project  
Part Six   
by Lianne Burwell**

  
Debi stirred, and moaned as her stomach protested the movement. The pain wasn't as sharp as it had been before, but it was still bad. She opened her eyes, and was surprised to find herself back in her own bed, her mother asleep in a chair next to her in a position that had to be bad for her back.

"Mom?" she said, and was shocked at how weak her voice was. Still, it was enough to wake her mother. Debi reached out to her, only to get tangled up in the tubes stuck into her arm.

"Careful," her mother said, helping to get the tubes back into place. "How do you feel?" she finally asked when everything was back where it should be and she was able to hold Debi's hand safely.

Debi thought about it for a moment. "Sore. Scared. What happened?" She remembered a lot of pain, then bright lights and lots of voices, but nothing more.

Suzanne hesitated, which meant that whatever it was, it had to be bad. Debi tightened her grip on her mother's hand until it had to be painful, but Suzanne never flinched. "I'm not sure. They wouldn't tell me anything, even after I tore the suite apart after they took you away. They just sent in Ceto to clean up. But..." she hesitated again, and Debi started to shiver.

"What? Mom..."

"Ceto says you're having a baby," Suzanne said in a rush.

Debi's eyes went wide. "I can't be. I'm not seeing anyone. Haven't in more than a year, and I wasn't even sleeping with him."

Suzanne reached over with her free hand and rested it on Debi's stomach. It heaved slightly, but there was no return of the earlier cramps. "I think he's right," she said softly.

"But..." Debi paused. "When I woke up here, my stomach was really sore." She swallowed hard. "What did they do to me?" she whispered, the tears welling up in her eyes. She didn't cry much, normally, but she was helpless to stop it. 

It was difficult to arrange with the IV tubes in the way, but her mother managed to wrap her arms around her. Debi buried herself in the hug and let the tears come.

"I don't know, baby," Suzanne murmured, stroking her hair. "But I'm here, and I won't leave you alone."

Debi just continued to cry.

* * *

After the meeting with Spender, the group of Sentinels and Guides were herded back to their floor, but this time they weren't locked into their rooms. Instead, heavy metal grills were dropped from the ceiling to block access to the elevators and stairwells, and the armed guards stayed behind them. Other than that, they were left to wander freely. It was a nice touch on Spender's part, giving them the illusion that they were there of their own choice, but the cameras were very obvious, and there was no way to get to them. Obviously their promises to cooperate didn't mean that the man was willing to trust them.

A quick exploration of their expanded domain found another dozen or so bedroom-like cells, none of them occupied, a small gym with basketball court and workout facilities, as well as a generic mess hall nearly identical to the one they'd just left. A fridge was stocked with drinks and snack foods, but there was no sign of how meals would be delivered. Eventually, the twelve men and women assembled there.

"So, how screwed are we?" Gordon Eagle asked. He was a very self-contained man, who had devoted his life to preserving the wild spaces of Canada. He was a park ranger in northern Quebec who had been referred to Blair by Constable Fraser. His guide, Marie Beaudaire, was a psychiatrist, and unlike her lover and partner, a confirmed city girl. Fire and ice, and yet they fit together as well as... well, as well as the rest of them, Blair thought to himself.

"Badly," Jim said with a grimace. He opened the fridge, and finally settled on a jug of some sort of fruit blend juice. He held it up, and several people nodded. Glasses were filled and handed around. "Blair did some checking after trying to contact Brian and David, right before we were taken. Officially, Brian died in a fire, David was killed by a bomb in his car, presumably because he's Arab. Gordon, you and Marie were killed in a small plane crash, along with the pilot and three others. My guess is that all of us are either dead or gone in a way that won't raise suspicions. No one is looking for us, people. We're on our own."

"So we play along, do what they tell us? I'm not sure I like that." There were several murmurs of agreement from around the room. Blair hunched over his glass. As much as he hated to admit it, the only thing that the people in the room had in common was him, which meant that it was his fault that they were there. He wasn't sure how, though. After the Alex Barnes disaster, he'd started encrypting all his files, using a piece of software Jack Kelso had given him. On the other hand, that software was one that the CIA used, and if this group was associated with the government —and the guy with the cigarette had implied that—then they would certainly have had the code to decrypt those files.

"The problem is, we don't know enough about these people," Karen Jeffries said. In her forties, she was a twenty-year veteran of the Marine Corps. Her Sentinel abilities had emerged when she was in her teens, and she'd used a no- nonsense attitude to control them until she'd met her husband. By the time Blair had met them, they'd figured out most of what they needed to know. But they'd been willing to let Blair test them for his dissertation. A dissertation that was never going to be finished, he swore to himself. Assuming that they got out of this in one piece, he was burning his papers and getting the strongest magnet he could to deal with his disks, videos, and computer. No one was ever going to use his research again.

Blair shook his head. Damnit, if Brackett hadn't taught him this lesson, Alex should have. Instead, he'd just blindly pressed on, ignoring the fact that someone could use his research to hurt people. The third time was the charm, though. He was going to go into a safer line of research, preferably one that involved peoples and societies long gone.

"Karen's right," Jim said, squeezing Blair's thigh under the table. He had obviously picked up on Blair's anxiety, something he'd gotten better at after they'd become lovers. "We don't even know where we are, other than that we are near the ocean. As much as I hate it, we cooperate. But he needs to know that there are limits to what we will do. Helping take out the people who attacked the President is something I'm willing to do, but I'm not going to do anything that would hurt innocents to do it."

"Agreed," Colonel Ironhorse said. He looked tired, and Blair wondered what had happened to him and the others after they'd left Cascade. The hotel room they'd been staying in had been blown up, but Forensics had confirmed Jim's instinct that no one had been inside.

"Ya think they're gonna let us go after?" Kowalski said, running one hand through his spiky hair, making it stand on end.

Everyone was silent for a moment, then Jim shook his head. "We'll have to cross that bridge when we get to it."

"So, basically we sit on our asses until the guy with the superiority complex tells us what to do, that it? This sucks."

It wasn't surprising that everyone agreed with Kowalski.

* * *

The sound of a keycard being inserted into the door lock broke Mulder's concentration, and he picked up his gun and pointed it towards the door. It was too late in the day for it to be house-cleaning—and considering the shape of the place, house-cleaning wasn't terribly conscientious—so if it wasn't Alex, it was trouble.

However, it was Alex, and he was carrying two large, flat white boxes that were giving off the most wonderful aroma, and Mulder's stomach growled, reminding him that lunch had been long ago and rather unappetizing. He set the laptop aside and tucked the gun into his waistband before going to help the man.

"One meat-lovers and one veggie. Veggie holds up better the morning after, I've found, especially considering the fact that this heat wave that doesn't seem to want to end." Alex wiped a trickle of sweat off his cheek as if to illustrate the point. "Anything?"

Mulder glanced to the laptop, still running with the cell- phone hooked up. "No messages from the Gunmen. Scully says Broots has a few possible hits in the database, and they're trying to figure out if they're close enough to warrant investigation. Other than that, the country is quiet. Almost _too_ quiet. It feels like everyone is waiting for the big one to hit, as if the assassinations weren't big enough."

Alex growled softly to himself as he opened one of the pizza boxes. "It wouldn't surprise me if something big was about to happen," he said, pulling out a slice without bothering with plate or napkin. He bit into it, then hissed. He fanned his mouth with his left hand, then swallowed. "Good," he mumbled. "Anyway, if Michaels is behind the assassinations—and I'd have to be pretty damned stupid to think he wasn't—then he's got something else up his sleeve to cement his power. Something that would make things too unstable for him to be replaced if the President dies. Hell, he may already _be_ dead, for all we know yet."

Mulder took a napkin for his slice, and carefully blew on it so that he wouldn't burn his mouth when he bit into it, ignoring Alex's smirk. Instead, he turned over the possibilities in his mind. "A terrorist act," he finally said. "Something to blame on the same people being blamed for the assassinations. He could extend the martial law indefinitely, as well as using it as an excuse to launch an attack on Iraq, or some other country harboring terrorists. No one is going to suggest replacing the top man in the middle of a war."

Alex was nodding as he finished off his slice of pizza. "That's what I figure too. The only problem is, we have no idea what the act might be." He pulled off a second slice and ate it quickly.

"Probably a bombing," Mulder mused as he chewed. "But would it be something symbolic or high death count? Either one would be good for raising people's emotions. The Statue of Liberty, maybe."

"Or Grand Central Station, or the Pentagon, or just about any skyscraper in the country." Alex grimaced. "Unfortunately, the choices are endless."

Suddenly, Mulder didn't feel quite so hungry. "So how do we stop them?" he asked, even though he knew the answer.

"We don't," Alex said predictably. "Not unless we happen to stumble across them by accident. There's just no way we can find out what their target or targets are without exposing ourselves even further." He glanced over at Mulder, and from his expression, Mulder knew that just what his face must look like. "I don't like it much either, but that's the way it is. Remember, we've probably still got that kill on sight order out on us."

That last comment made Mulder wince. While Alex was back to nearly full strength, the scar on his abdomen was painfully vivid whenever he took his shirt off. Most of the scar was surgical, but the surgery had been necessary because Alex had come between him and a bullet meant for him. According to the would-be assassin—a Corporal assigned to the Stargate Project, and a Consortium plant—a kill order had been issued for both of them, as well as Scully, almost as soon as they had met with Agent Debi McCullough and started to learn the truth about the alien conspiracy and all its many tentacles.

"So what _can_ we do?" he finally asked, putting aside his second slice.

"I called my contact from a pay phone while I was getting the food," Alex said, grabbing a third piece. His stomach obviously wasn't affected by the idea of war and destruction. "We meet with him tomorrow at lunch time. He's not part of the Consortium, but he is an information broker with an in to their computers. We need to know if Michaels is working on his own, or if he's got the full weight of the Consortium behind him. Then we need to find out where they've got the President stashed, assuming that he isn't already dead. Third, we need to find proof that what they're feeding the public is a lie. If we can get that, then maybe we can send it to people in the government that I _know_ aren't involved in Michael's little coup. Then, which Michaels deals with a revolt in his ranks, we go after Spender and his cronies."

"Shit," Mulder breathed. "You don't ask for a lot, do you?"

Alex shrugged. "It's either that or we get the hell out of the country and hope that Michaels is working on his own. If that's the case, then the Consortium will take care of him for us. Eventually. Do you really want to do that?" Alex's voice didn't betray anything but mild interest, but the slight tensing of his shoulder's told Mulder what he really thought of that idea.

"No. Screwed up though it may be, this is my country, and I've been fighting these people far too long to just give up and run away."

Alex smiled a predator's smile. "Good. Now, are you going to finish that? Cause if not, I will."

Mulder glanced at the remains of his pizza, and suddenly realized that he was hungry again. He finished it in three bites, then waved towards the box. "Pass me another slice," he said.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, General?"

George Hammond looked up from his computer screen. Even his favorite subordinate—or perhaps that should be insubordinate—couldn't raise his spirits, though. "Sit down, Colonel," he said, waving O'Neill towards one of the two chairs on the other side of his desk. O'Neill sat, and they both winced at the piercing squeal of metal against metal. Unfortunately, the other one wasn't any better, and he kept forgetting to nag maintenance about oiling the chairs. Still, it encouraged visitors to keep it brief.

O'Neill looked tired, but then they all did. Since the assassination of the Vice-President and the wounding of the President, Stargate Central had been under lockdown conditions. No one came into the base, and no one left. They were all living in spare uniforms kept in lockers, and one of the gyms had been set up with army cots and sleeping bags, and the staff slept in shifts, since there weren't enough bunkrooms for everyone.

At least some of them—including the Stargate teams and Hammond—had private quarters in the base. But tempers were starting to fray, and there'd already been two fights that had nearly become brawls. The only thing keeping them sane was the continued off-world missions, since travel via the Stargate did not exactly break the lockdown orders.

Hammond saved the document he was working on—another in the long list of reports he'd been ordered to make out recently—then shut down the laptop computer. He still didn't like having to work with the damned things all the time, but at least the laptops took up less of his desk surface. "I've had news from Washington."

Immediately, O'Neill's eyes narrowed suspiciously. His feelings about politicians in general were well known, if only because he tended to express them at full volume, but considering recent events, they'd been keeping their heads down. Not that they wouldn't jump at the chance to help nail the people behind the assassination; it was just that with an unknown quantity in the seat of power, their own project's future became uncertain. Hammond didn't believe that Michael's would be foolish enough to shut them down, but beyond that, who knew what the man might do? He'd never met the man, but from what he'd heard, Michaels was pure politician, and ambitious. A dangerous combination.

And the call he'd received on the scrambled line from the capital just made his fears worse. "In light of recent events, the White House has decided that they want to keep a closer eye on us. They are sending an observer to make sure that nothing jeopardizes our operations."

O'Neill winced theatrically. Hammond just hoped that the man would control himself better around the observer, whoever that was. "Please tell me it isn't Senator Kinsey," the Colonel begged.

"They didn't give me a name, I'm afraid," Hammond said.

"Shit. This could be really bad."

"Especially after what happened here recently," Hammond said sourly. Washington hadn't been impressed with the fact that three outsiders had managed to get into the base, let alone the fact that one of their own people had promptly tried to murder one of those outsiders. However, remembering Agent Mulder's warnings about other possible spies in the military, he'd kept the names of the three men out of his official report, inventing fake names. Lying to his superiors had been galling, but not as much as having a man under his care nearly die at the hands of one of his own.

He'd been less uncertain about the lying after they shipped Corporal Whitaker—the assassin—off to Washington, though. He'd disappeared en route, and when Hammond checked, there was no record of him ever even being _in_ the Air Force. Mulder's comments about the so-called Consortium not liking failures came to mind.

"Anything on Agent Mulder?" O'Neill asked, his words echoing Hammond's thoughts almost uncannily.

"Nothing. I did ask an old friend that I trust to check on the man, but within a day he was being visited by agents from the Department of Justice. It seems that there are terrorist ties in the FBI, and Agent Mulder is at the top of the suspect list. Luckily, he was able to cover up his interest by saying he was reading up on criminal profiling, which was true. It seems that Agent Mulder was an excellent profiler before he left to work on the X-Files."

"Serial killers to alien abductees? Both loony-tunes, so I guess it's appropriate," O'Neill said with a grin. Then he sobered up. "You don't think he really _is_..." He trailed off.

"Right now, I don't know what to think. We've got a country in disarray, an unknown quantity in control, and Goa'uld interest in PX15267. And our new observer is arriving tomorrow afternoon, and _whoever_ it is, they will be treated with respect, since I don't need to tell you, now is not the time to be making waves."

O'Neill sighed, then stood. "Yes, sir."


	8. Part Seven

**The Sentinel Project  
Part Seven   
by Lianne Burwell**

  
Jeff Ericks pulled up the results from the McCullough girl's last blood work and sighed in relief. The toxins in her blood system had dropped back down to acceptable levels. She'd developed a late allergic reaction to the drugs that kept her body from rejecting the fetus as a foreign organism, the same way drugs were used to prevent rejection of an organ transplant. Thankfully, they'd managed to stabilize her long enough to find an alternative drug that would do the same thing without risking her health.

"What's the report on subject one-five-seven?" Linda Malone asked as she came through the door into the lab.

Jeff frowned at her. "She has a name, you know," he said.

The glare she sent his was acid enough to corrode steel. "She _had_ a name," Dr. Malone said, looking like she'd been sucking on lemons. She was in her fifties, but looked older; the picture of a Victorian schoolmarm for whom anything fun was against the rules.

Jeff turned back to his computer, but she didn't get the hint. "She is a test subject now, and if you want to stay in this business, you need to learn not to get attached to the test subjects. Refer to them by their numbers, do not use names. She is test subject one-five-seven, and that is what she will remain. Her sole purpose is to carry another test subject to delivery. After that, she is expendable. Now, what is the report on subject one-five-seven?"

Jeff's jaw tightened, and he tapped a few commands into his computer. "She had a build up of the anti-rejection drugs, and they stopped working. The new combination has returned her blood-work to within normal tolerance. I recommend that we test her more often than once a week so that we can avoid another crisis."

"Very good," Dr. Malone said frostily. "And I agree. Blood samples are to be taken twice a week. If there is any sign of rising toxins, they will be done every day. We are expected to succeed this time. If not, the project will be shut down." With that ominous comment, she left.

Jeff turned back to the monitor, and with a mouse-click activated the feed from the girl's bedroom. She was sitting up in bed, with a tray on her lap, eating some sort of soup. Knowing the standing orders, the soup was laced with vitamins, and a few drugs to keep her more docile. Her mother was sitting next to the bed, eating her own lunch, which probably had a higher than usual dose of sedatives, considering her violent outburst when her daughter had been rushed to the clinic.

Debi McCullough was a very attractive young woman, Jeff noted to himself, watching her face as she talked with her mother, although without the sound, he couldn't tell what they were saying. It was a pity... He cut off that thought.

Jeff had checked the records, since the last offspring of the project had been born before he'd been recruited. What he had learned hadn't been good. None of the other mothers had survived delivery. In every case, the still soft claws of the infants had started to rip at the inside of the womb. Unlike their fully feline brethren, the hybrids were born _with_ functional claws.

He'd watched the tape of one such birth and had been horrified, although he'd known better than to let that show. The thought of the same thing happening to this bright young woman made his stomach clench, even though he knew that there was nothing he could do to stop it. In fact, by helping in the procedure that had implanted the embryo into her, he had, in effect, co-signed her death warrant.

For a moment, his eyes prickled and a lump formed in his throat. Moving quickly, he closed the window and went back to his work.

Perhaps Malone was right: He should be thinking of her as just another nameless test subject.

* * *

Even though there were few dress uniforms stored in the Cheyenne Mountain facility, and they still didn't have permission from Washington to allow any of the staff to go home, Hammond's aide had managed to find enough people to create a decent looking honor guard to meet the observer, who he had been assured spoke with the voice of the Oval Office, if not the President. The President was still in intensive care, he'd been told, and considering the current instability, there were no plans to find a permanent replacement, so the Speaker of the House, Jerome Michaels, was still running things.

A car was pulling up to the mountain entrance when Colonel O'Neill finally showed up. He was in his every day uniform, but Hammond decided that it wasn't worth calling the man on. He had to be there, as head of SG-1, and while he knew for a fact that O'Neill had a dress uniform on base, he was obviously making a point to their new supervisor. Hammond just prayed that it didn't get the man slapped down.

The driver hopped out of the car and practically ran to open the rear door. A pair of legs, long, shapely, and definitely female, barely covered by a skirt, emerged first, followed by the rest of a very female figure. When she stood, the woman was nearly six feet tall, blonde, and beautiful. She was immaculately dressed to show that figure to full effect, but her expression was coolly professional. She wasn't wearing any sort of uniform, which surprised him. He would have thought that their new supervisor would be military.

"Well, that's definitely not Senator Kinsey," O'Neill said lightly from behind him, although he didn't relax at all.

And if Hammond were forced, he would have to admit that he was a little relieved. Kinsey had been forced on them a couple times, and the man seemed to consider the Stargate project a waste of time and money. Even proof of the Goa'uld's hostility towards Earth hadn't really convinced the man that the Stargate was worth keeping. He'd also been trying to force Hammond out, which didn't endear him much to the General.

Then the second person emerged from the car, and Hammond stiffened. Behind him, O'Neill started cursing, although he did so softly. Although he hid his own feelings behind a professional expression—he hadn't made it to General without learning to hide his opinion of idiots—Hammond had to agree. Especially when O'Neill started speculating about the man's parentage and living habits.

Luckily, he stopped before the two newcomers got within earshot. Hammond stepped forward and held out his hand. "Welcome to Stargate Command," he said as politely as possible. "I'm General Hammond."

The woman's smile was cool, and didn't reach her eyes. She did, however, shake his hand. "I am Marita Covarrubias," she said with a faint accent. "I believe you know my aide, Colonel Maybourne."

Hammond's eyes flickered to the man standing behind the woman. There was the faintest of smirks on the man's face, but he quickly covered it up. "I was under the impression that Colonel Maybourne was considered a fugitive from the law," he said flatly.

"Difficult times require difficult measures, General," Covarrubias said, letting go of his hand and indicating for him to lead the way. "I trust your people can be counted on to behave professionally?"

"We can. Can he?"

Covarrubias stopped and turned around to face O'Neill. "Colonel, we both have our orders from higher up. If you feel that you cannot work with Colonel Maybourne, you are quite free to turn around and leave. Your resignation will be accepted, regretfully."

O'Neill stiffened. "As long as he stays on the right side of the law, I will put up with him. The moment he steps over that line, I don't care how high up his friends obviously are, he's going down. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly," the woman said.

"If you'll follow me, I'll show you to the office you'll be using," Hammond said, deciding to break in before O'Neill got himself in any deeper.

"Thank you, General," Covarrubias said with a faint smile.

"Besides, I still remember the coordinates for Hadante," O'Neill muttered so quietly that only Hammond could hear him as he fell in behind. Hammond didn't call him on it, though.

If only because if Maybourne caused any trouble, he'd probably help the Colonel pitch the man through the gate on the one-way trip to that prison world.

* * *

When the first orders were delivered to the group of unwilling operatives, they were all more than a little surprised when the first pair tagged was Kowalski and Fraser. It had been several days since the meeting with Spender, and they'd all passed the time in their various ways, whether by reading, or exercising, or watching television now that one was made available to them. It was almost pleasant, now that they had the run of the level. Pleasant, that is, except for the bars and the silent guards that made sure that they couldn't leave the level, either by stairs or the one elevator. Brian—the firefighter from New York—had grumbled about the safety issues if there was a fire, but for the most part, they all pretended not to notice.

They hadn't even realized that there was a speaker system on the level until an anonymous female voice had asked— well, maybe ordered was a better term for it—the two men to go to the elevators.

With many eyes on them, Fraser and Kowalski stepped into the elevator. Stan winced at the sound of the bars clanging shut just before the elevator doors closed. There were only two guards with them—hell, Fraser could have taken them both out on his own without even breaking into a sweat— but they didn't try anything. The others were effective hostages, even though Stan wasn't sure he trusted those two new guys. Ironhorse and Blackwood seemed to know just a little too much. Sure, Fraze and the other super-senses guys said that the two men weren't lying, but Stan had the feeling that they were hiding something. Telling the truth didn't mean you were the good guys.

The elevator whisked them up an unknown number of levels— unknown since there were no indicators, and the elevator was so smooth that it was impossible to tell that it was moving, let alone how fast—then opened onto a corridor identical to the one they'd left except for the lack of bars.

They followed one of the guards, while the other one came up behind them. A dizzying number of turns later, their guide knocked on a door, then opened it and gestured for them to go in. The guards stayed out in the corridor.

The office inside was as opulent as the hallway had been bare. The walls were wallpapered in rich tones of red and gold. The desk in the center of the room was huge, with a top that was obviously carved from a single piece of wood. The floor was covered in ornate Persian rugs, layered one on top of the other, and the chairs were covered in expensive-looking leather, not the cheap stuff. Stan felt grubby in the middle of all this splendor, but he didn't show it as he flopped down in one of the guest chairs. "So, what's up?" he asked the man behind the desk.

Spender didn't look happy, but Stan didn't care. Just because they'd agreed to cooperate—for the moment— that didn't mean that he was going to suck up to the bastard.

Spender snubbed out the remains of a cigarette butt—and from the nicotine stains on his fingers, he was definitely a candidate for lung cancer—and sat back in his seat. He ignored Stan, which was just fine by him. Instead, Spender and Fraser stared at each other for a long moment until Stan was ready to start fidgeting.

Finally, Spender nodded towards the other chair, and Fraser sat down, back perfectly straight, unlike Stan's slouch. The formal stuff was usually fine by Stan, but he wished Fraser would drop it right now, since it looked like he was sucking up to the SOB behind the desk. Still, it was the way the man was, and trying to change him was impossible.

Spender pulled out another cigarette and lit, ignoring the expression of distaste on Fraser's face. Stan wrinkled his nose, but he was used to the smell. No matter what the city tried to impose in the way of non-smoking rules at the PD, they were never enforced. The smokers smoked, and if the non-smokers didn't like it, they could take a flying leap. You learned to deal.

No one said you had to like it, though.

"I've received word that a member of the Department of Justice is in possession of information I need. You will be obtaining it for me."

Stan exchanged frowns with Fraser. "Just what does that mean?" he asked cautiously.

The man pulled a folder out of his desk drawer and pushed it across the nearly empty desktop. Stan picked it up and flipped through it, before passing it to Fraser. It held blueprints of a building and information on the security system and the guard schedule. One office was marked, as was the location of a safe, predictably behind a painting.

Stan's lips were tight with anger. "So, let me get this straight: You want us to break into a federal Department of Justice building, open the safe in the office of a high muck-a-much, and steal somethin' out of it?"

The smile on Spender's face made Stan's hand itch. He wanted to slug the creep, if only to wipe the smug expression off his face. "That is exactly what I am saying."

Fraser was frowning at the contents of the folder. Stan could tell that the dark-haired man did not like the idea. Fraser was so honest it was almost painful, so the idea of actively breaking the law, except in extreme need, was distasteful. Hell, he'd sent a girlfriend to jail— although from what Stan had heard, if anyone deserved jail it was Victoria. "Why us? Can't you get someone else to do it? I mean, we ain't exactly sneak thieves."

"Really? Tell me, Detective Kowalski, what happens to a juvenile offender's record when he reaches the age of eighteen?"

Stan froze. "They get purged from the system," he said.

"Well, purged does not mean destroyed. Your abilities, combined with Constable Fraser's, make the two of you the perfect choice. Unless, of course, you are planning on going back on your agreement," Spender added coldly.

"What happens if we get caught. I mean, this isn't like breaking into the principal's office," Stan pointed out, and blushed when Fraser shot him a curious look. "It was a dare. I got into the office safe and left a note. Didn't take anything. Got one month probation to make sure I got that it had been a bad idea," he said softly as an aside. The corner of Fraser's mouth twitched in amusement.

"Still, your experience in safe-cracking and the Constable's senses make the two of you the perfect choice for this job."

"And if we get caught?" Stan asked bluntly, since Fraser was obviously ready to let him do all the talking. "This is a little different from a high-school building, and no matter how good we might be, shit happens."

"I would suggest that you don't get caught. In the current climate, any security guard that catches you is probably more likely to shoot you than to arrest you. And if you think ending up in police custody is a good way to get away from me, there is nowhere to get away from my reach, not even in jail."

Taking in the man's cold expression, Stan didn't doubt him. Hell, just the way he'd ended up with his personal collection of Sentinels was evidence enough of that. "Fine. How long have we got to prepare?" he asked sourly.

"You leave for DC tomorrow at lunch time. You will have two nights to perform the task. If it is going to take longer than that, you will have to provide justification. Any equipment you need—within reason—will be supplied for you. Just give a list to your support man."

"At least we get support," Stan muttered to himself, then took the folder back from Fraser and flipped it open again. He stared at the floor plans for a moment with a frown. He didn't want to be doing this, but every statement Spender made seemed to have an 'or else' attached at the end, and he really didn't want to find out what that might mean.

And he had to give it to the man; they had all the information that they could possibly need. And the two ID badges inside with their photos actually looked legit. He still wondered why _they_ were being tagged for this when just about anyone could do the job, but put it aside. It was probably a test to see if they would actually do as they were told.

However, looking at the plans, he had a few ideas, but he wanted to run them past Fraser and the others downstairs.

* * *

"Are you sure you want to send them? We have people in place who could probably do the job better."

Spender glanced up at his aide. "Perhaps. But I need to know what these people are capable of. Both Kowalski and Fraser have commendations in their normal field of work, but they are no longer in Chicago or Canada, or on any police force. This little test should tell us whether or not they are... trainable."

The corner of Martin's mouth quirked up. "I take it then that you have no intention of letting them go once Michaels has been neutralized?"

Spender smirked. "I've been thinking about that. They are far too valuable a resource to throw away. And I'm sure that with the right incentive, they will prove quite.. tractable."


	9. Part Eight

**The Sentinel Project  
Part Eight   
by Lianne Burwell**

  
Krycek's meet was held in location that no one in their right mind would expect from him: one of the finest restaurants in Chicago. Dressed in pressed slacks, a dark green silk shirt, and a cream tie that he'd bought just that afternoon, although he still wore his favorite leather jacket, he strutted into the restaurant and told the maitre'd that he was meeting someone, then brushed past the man to go to Marco's table. The man—mobster, if you wanted to be blunt about it—was sitting at his usual table at the back, between the emergency exit and the kitchen. From that location he had an excellent view of the entrance and his choice of exits if he didn't like what he saw coming through the door.

Alex slid into the seat opposite Marco, ignoring Mulder as he was seated at a table at the other side of the restaurant, over near the bar.

"Your friend not joining us?" Marco asked, nodding towards Mulder.

Alex snorted. He should have known that Marco wouldn't be fooled. "I didn't think you'd want to talk with him around," he said. "Besides, he's just waiting for me."

"Sure," the elegantly dressed man drawled. "Somehow I think that Agent Mulder has a bit more of a... personal interest in this, don't you?"

Alex frowned, although he knew he shouldn't have been surprised. "Enough, Marco," he said coldly, but the other man just laughed. If he'd been able to convince Mulder to stay back at the hotel, he would have, but like Skinner and Scully before him, he was finding that controlling Mulder was like herding cats. In a word, impossible. Better to have him close by where he could keep an eye on the man.

"What were you able to find out," he asked instead of resorting to anything so crude as threats. Marco knew that he better keep his mouth shut about Krycek's business, even though selling information was _his_ business.

Marco picked up his wine glass and sipped from it, delaying answering. It didn't bother Alex: Marco liked to play mind games, but he was the best around, and he liked to keep his eye on anything. He wasn't actually a member of the Consortium, but he'd done the occasional job for them, which was how Alex had met him. And despite being a Chicago mobster, he was also a veteran of the intelligence community, which explained why no law enforcement agency had ever been able to pin anything on him. John Gotti, the so-called Teflon Don, had nothing on Marco Armone.

Marco was frowning, which was not a good sight. "Alex, you're a good kid, for a Ruskie, and I like you, you know that, right?"

Alex went still, except for his hand, which was inching towards the small gun tucked into its holster under his leather jacket. "I wish you wouldn't call me kid, but yeah," he said, noncommittally. He liked Marco too, but if there was any sign that the man was going to betray him, he was going to take Marco out first.

"Well, keeping that in mind, trust me when I say, you should get the hell out of this country. Go north, go south, go to Europe. Anyplace but here."

Alex didn't relax, but he was no longer expecting an ambush. Still, Marco wasn't the type to panic, and this was as close to panic as he'd ever seen the man. "Why?" he asked, frowning.

Marco's lips tightened and he put the wine glass down, getting down to business. "My sources inside the Consortium says everything's going to hell. Michaels has broken ranks, and plans to use his current office to destroy Spender. Spender on the other hand plans to take Michaels down before he gets them all in deep shit, and as part of his plans, he's activated something called The Sentinel Project." Marco paused, but Alex just shrugged. He'd never heard of the project, but that wasn't surprising. While he'd been good at ferreting out information back when he'd still been on the inside, he'd still only been a bit player.

Marco sighed. "Michaels apparently has big plans right now, but only a few people close to him know what those plans are. He's getting very paranoid, and rightly so. But whatever it is, it's big. Rumor has it that there's a broken arrow, but they're being very careful to make sure that the press doesn't find out about it."

Alex hissed at that. Broken Arrow was a term for a missing nuke, as popularized in an action movie several years earlier. "He plans to explode a nuclear device on American soil," he said bluntly. Marco nodded.

"That is what I think."

"This doesn't explain why you think I should pick up and run."

Marco leaned forward, and his voice dropped even further. "You should run because there are at least three death warrants out on you. Michaels wants you dead. Spender wants you dead. The Feds have a shoot on sight order. And there is a bounty on your head out on the streets. Frankly, I'm amazed that you're still in one piece."

Alex glanced over to where Mulder was sipping on a drink. Mulder knew better than to look directly at him, but their eyes met in the mirror behind that bar. "And Mulder?" he asked. While changing the man's hair color slightly and giving him colored contacts had helped change his appearance, Mulder's nose was too damned distinctive to disguise without resorting to full cosmetic surgery, which needless to say, was out of the question. Alex, on the other hand, knew enough tricks to hide himself in a crowd. Being more conventionally handsome, people noticed him less. Or rather, they saw him, but didn't really remember the details.

Marco didn't bother to look towards the bar. "Michaels wants him dead, but Spender wants him alive," he said, and even after the incident in Colorado, Alex wasn't really surprised. Spender had always worked to keep Mulder alive. There were those who thought that it was because he was Mulder's real father—he had been having an affair with Teena Mulder at the right time—but Alex knew that it was untrue, having seen the blood tests. Perhaps Spender thought of Mulder as the son he always wanted. He didn't _think_ it was because Spender had... less that fatherly feelings. Anyway, Spender was the only person who could explain just why he'd gone to such lengths to keep Mulder alive and in one piece.

Marco was starting to get nervous, and Alex wasn't surprised. There was not sign of surveillance, but there was always the chance that they were being watched, and being seen with a man under a shoot on sight order was something that might goad the Feds into finally moving on him. "Is that everything?" Marco asked pointedly.

"Walter Skinner."

"Accused of being in the pay of terrorists. There are arrest warrants out for him, as well as a number of others, including Agents Mulder and Scully."

"Any sign of him?"

Marco smiled. "Absolutely none. Either he's dead, or in hiding, and if he's in hiding, I am very impressed."

Alex nodded to himself. "We're looking for a Consortium facility referred to as the Mexico Facility. No idea if that means Mexico or New Mexico. Do you know anything about it?"

The other man frowned and tapped one elegant finger against his chin. "Not off the top of my head, but I can look into it."

Alex pulled a card out of his pocket. On it was an e-mail address and nothing else. He slid it across the table to the other man. "If you find out anything more about either subject, or what Michael's target might be, contact me here. Be careful what you put in the message though."

That annoyed the man. "I have been in this business longer than you've been alive, kid. I know how to be careful."

Alex grinned at the man's expression, then sobered. "Watch your back, Marco. Things are getting messy, and I don't want to see you get taken down." Marco was more than a source, he was also one of the few friends Alex had in the world.

"Neither do I, kid. Neither do I."

* * *

The waiting was the worst part. When Kowalski and Fraser had returned from Spender's office, they were carrying a file folder and wearing worried expressions. Everyone had gathered in the cafeteria and had gone over the information, coming up with a workable plan of attack for the two men before they had to leave.

Plan A was simple enough: The two men would use the identification badges Spender had supplied to get into the building at the end of the day when most of the staff would have gone home. The badges were top level, so they wouldn't have any trouble with curfew. From there, they would go to the office in question, break into the safe, take the files Spender wanted, close everything up without leaving any signs that they'd been there, then walk out again. Simple.

Of course, life was never that simple. No matter what their IDs said, they would still be strangers to the guards, who were probably on high alert. There were also regular patrols, even in the middle of the workday, looking for people in locations where they shouldn't be. As well, considering the current events, there were going to be people still in their offices at midnight, probably. All of these things meant that getting in and out was likely to be more than a little tricky.

Ellison and Colonel Ironhorse were the only members of the group with any covert operations experience, so they led the brainstorming. By the time the guards came for the two men, five different escape routes had been planned, and contingency plans had been rehearsed.

Didn't stop Jim from pacing back and forth in the cell he shared with Blair. His imagination insisted on coming up with scenario after disaster scenario, leaving him unable to get any sleep. At least when he was back in the army, after these planning sessions, he was the one going on the mission, either alone or as part of the team, and towards the end, leading the team.

And that was the problem. This wasn't the army anymore, but he still felt responsible for the rest of the group. Old leadership instincts.

"Jim?"

The sleepy question from the direction of the bed stopped him in his tracks, and he felt guilty. This was the first time Blair had slept more than three hours without waking up from nightmares. No matter how much everyone reassured him that it wasn't his fault—and Jim's senses told him that most of them, at least, were honest about it—Blair still blamed himself for their predicament.

"It's nothing. Go back to sleep," Jim said softly. Unfortunately, Blair wasn't very good about taking the hint.

"What's wrong?" Blair asked, sitting up in the bed, pushing a mass of tangled hair out of his eyes, even though with the lights off, he had to be nearly blind. Jim, of course, could see every detail as if it were day.

Giving in to the inevitable, Jim sat down on the edge of the bed. "I'm just worrying about Stan and Benton," he said as Blair waited expectantly. Damn, his lover had him well- trained. He _used_ to be able to keep things to himself. Really. Just ask his ex-wife. Of course, his marriage to Carolyn had been over in less that a year, while Blair had been a part of his life for nearly five years now.

"We're all worried," Blair said, sounding more and more awake by the moment, which just made Jim feel more guilty. "But the plan was good, and all we can do is wait now."

"I know that," Jim said with a sigh. "I just wish I was the one going in. Well, not really, but damnit, at least I have the experience to do the job. They're going to be in over their heads."

Blair snorted. "Don't sell them short. They know what they're doing, and they have umpteen contingency plans for every possibility. Trust them."

"I do. I just... It doesn't make any sense. Why send them when Ironhorse and I have more experience in these sorts of operations? It doesn't make any sense."

"These days, what does?"

Jim shook his head. "Ignore me. I'm just feeling..."

"Out of control?" Blair grinned. "My favorite control freak."

Jim laughed at the fond tone in his lover's voice, then gave him a nudge. "Go back to sleep Blair."

"Too late. You're up, I'm up. Wanna go play some darts? You can imagine Mr. "I own you" as the target," Blair suggested

Blair was up, and _he_ certainly wasn't going to get any sleep. "Sure, why not. I'll even give you a handicap."

"Excuse me?" Blair said, standing up. "Just who whooped your ass the last time the Major Crimes group went out to Dooley's?"

"Luck, pure luck," Jim quipped as Blair got up and pulled on a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt.

"Yeah, well this 'luck' is going to wipe the floor with you. Again."

They headed out the door towards the games room, and Jim found his mood lightening. Maybe everything would work out. If not, he would sic Blair on it, and his partner would _force_ it to work out.

* * *

Although he covered it up well, Fraser was concerned. While in the course of various cases he had indulged in a little break and enter, he had never done so in an official government building before. And while he knew that they had come up with plans to cover every contingency, he was still worried about what could happen.

As well, he could not help feeling guilty for the fact that Stanley was in this mess with him. If not for him, Stanley would be living an ordinary life in Chicago, a decorated detective without worries. Well, perhaps that wasn't true, but even Stanley would have to admit that his life had been anything but ordinary since Fraser had come into his life. Sometimes, when he woke in the middle of the night, Fraser wondered if, knowing what would happen, Stanley still would have chosen to accept the undercover operation in which he had impersonated Ray Vecchio. He had never broached the subject, though, having a good idea what the other man's reaction would be. Still, he wondered.

Spender had certainly planned well, he had to admit. They had been supplied with military uniforms with enough ribbons on their chests that security was likely to remember them rather than the faces of their owners. Fraser, for some reason, had been given the higher rank. That, plus the ID cards they had been given allowed them easy access to the building that was their target. However, access was only the start.

Their excuse for being in the building was a meeting with a mid-level bureaucrat in an office down the hall and around the corner from the office that was their target. This was risky, since the man in question _was_ in the building. Otherwise, they would have been turned away. This meant that there was someone in close proximity to them as they worked. As well, there was always the chance that security could call the man to check up on them, which would be a disaster.

The office was found easily enough, since they had spent a great deal of time going over blueprints. They also knew where the security cameras, which allowed them to either avoid them, or at least avert their faces at the right times so that they would not be identifiable on film afterwards, assuming that they managed to get away cleanly.

The office door was locked, but a skeleton key quickly dealt with that. They locked it behind them, to prevent anyone from happening on them unexpectedly.

"All right," Stanley said, cracking his knuckles, then pulling his glasses out of a pocket and setting them firmly on his face. "Let's take a look at this safe."

The safe was exactly where the plans had said it was, set behind a portrait of a former president. The portrait was easily removed from the wall, revealing the safe with its old-fashioned spin dial. That seemed to indicate that the safe had been there a great while: A more modern safe would have an electric keypad, connected to an alarm should someone try to enter the wrong sequence too many times.

The additional equipment Stanley pulled from his pockets was compact and very high-tech. The listening device was more sensitive than the stethoscopes that safe-crackers used in the movies, and another tiny device would detect tumblers locking in place. Stanley attached them to the metal surface of the safe door next to the lock.

Stanley licked his lips, then set his hand on the dial. "Okay, let's see if I still got it," he muttered to himself.

At this point, there was little that Fraser could do to help his partner. Perhaps his own enhanced senses could have done the job better that the tools Stanley had, but it was the other man who had the skills to open the safe, and there had been no time to teach Fraser.

As well, although the other man's confidence had improved greatly since their first meeting, Stanley still suffered from time to time of a lack of self-esteem, seeing himself as the less capable member of the pairing, so it suited Fraser to step aside in his partner's favor whenever possible.

Instead, he moved to the side of the door and extended his hearing outwards into the hallway, listening for any sign that their illicit presence had been discovered.


	10. Part Nine

**The Sentinel Project  
Part Nine   
by Lianne Burwell**

  
"Ka- _ching_! I am so good."

Stan swung the door of the safe open with a grin. Actually, it had been so easy that it almost wasn't funny. The guy whose office they were in needed to get himself a better safe. And some better security. Anyone who got past the pit bulls in blue uniforms at the front desk wouldn't have any trouble with this antique.

"Come to papa," he muttered to himself, pulling out the pile of file folders inside. The one they wanted—okay, make that _Spender_ wanted—was there, near the bottom of the pile. Stan pulled it out and put the others back where he found them, despite the temptation to flip through them. He shut the safe door, gave the dial a spin to make sure that it was locked, then carefully set it back to the same position that it had been in before, although he doubted that the owner was smart enough to notice a detail like that. After all, he was a political appointee. Stan didn't think much of political types. They were so... political.

He may have restrained himself from going through the other folders, but the one had hung onto he considered fair game. He started flipping the contents, frowning at page after page of numbers. It looked like someone tax accounts. What the hell did Spender want with them?

"Stanley. Voices coming this way."

Fraser's voice pulled him back to the here and now, and he quickly packed up his equipment and tucked the folder inside his uniform jacket before he got more than a few pages into it. He moved over to Fraser's side and waited for the other man to give the go-ahead.

After a moment, Fraser nodded, and eased the door open. They slipped through, and headed down the corridor at a casual stroll, as if they'd made their appointment and were now leaving. There was no time to lock the door again, but with any luck, that wouldn't be discovered until the security guards did there normal pass-through in a couple hours, assuming that they even bothered to try the door.

They stopped twice when Fraser indicated. Stan wasn't sure what he had heard to make him so cautious, but there wasn't exactly time to ask. The important thing was getting out in one piece. The sense of triumph he'd felt on being able to crack the safe was quickly dissipating.

The elevator whisked them down the building lobby, and they were heading for the door when the alarms started to shriek. They paused, and though Stan was about ready to panic and run, Fraser just stopped, looked up into the air with a puzzled expression, then shrugged and continued on his way as though whatever was going on was none of his concern. Stan followed his example.

They were getting into their car when guards started pouring out of the building, guns drawn and yelling. "Hold on," Stan said, then gunned the engine. Instead of heading away from the armed guards, he headed straight for them, scattering them in every direction, before turning for the gate. The barrier was down, the guard was pointing a gun at them, and the others had recovered their senses and were shooting at them from behind.

The barrier broke apart as they hit it, and thankfully the official-looking car they'd been supplied with was bullet proof. A moment later, they were out onto the main street and merging into traffic.

"Well, that was fun" Stan said, slowing down slightly to match traffic.

"Indeed. However, I suggest that we head for the airport immediately. The authorities will be looking for us."

"Yep. And we wouldn't want to get caught. Might make his lordship peeved with us."

Fraser frowned disapprovingly at him. "And if he is peeved, as you put it, he might take it out on the others."

Stan took the on-ramp for the interstate heading out of town, towards the small airfield where the Gulfstream corporate-style jet was waiting to fly them back to wherever it was that the kidnapped men and women had been stashed. "Right. Sorry, Fraze."

The frown turned into that smile that melted his insides. "I understand. But I suggest that you control your anger. Until we can find a way for _all_ of us to get away, anger will only cause more problems."

Intellectually, Stan understood, but emotionally it was hard. The anger had been bubbling under the surface ever since he'd seen that gun pressed to Fraser's head. The destruction of the cabin that they'd worked long and hard on, turning it into _their_ home, worry about how Diefenbaker was doing without anyone to feed his junk food habit, the feeling of being turned into puppets dancing at Spender's orders: Everything merged together leaving him feeling like a stick of really old TnT.

In other words, ready to go off at the slightest jostle.

But for the moment he shoved those thoughts away and concentrated on getting them out of town in one piece.

* * *

"I see that you have continued to send teams on missions, even though the base has been locked down." Covarrubias's voice was completely devoid of expression, making it difficult to tell whether or not she was upset about that.

"Yes. However, I took it that the lock down applied to exposure to possible terrorist threats," General Hammond said coolly, not backing down. "As well, the Goa'uld aren't going to give us a break because we're having problems here. If anything, they're more likely to mount an offensive to take advantage of the confusion."

"There is no confusion," Maybourne said from his seat near the door. "The only question is when we will strike back, and I don't think that we'll have to wait long. Then we'll show those rag-heads just what happens when you take on the U.S. of A."

Jack had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from saying just what he thought about that pompous statement. Sure, he agreed with the sentiment, but the man just rubbed him the wrong way. And there was something about this whole conspiracy business that also rubbed him wrong. Maybe he'd been fighting the Goa'uld so long that he just wasn't used to ordinary, every day, human nastiness. On the other hand, after the NSD and Maybourne and Kinsey, maybe he'd reached the point where triple-thought came so easily that he didn't trust anything.

Including the blonde sent by Washington. Who the hell was she? Jack had certainly never heard her before, either through politics or the military. The fact that she'd come out of nowhere to be put in charge of the Stargate Project disturbed him. Hell, as far as he was concerned, she shouldn't have even _known_ about the project. What was she? CIA? NSA? Some other alphabet soup super-secret spy agency? Whatever she was, he didn't trust her any further than he could throw her. No, correction: He didn't trust her any further than Dr. Frasier could throw her, and no matter how strong the tiny woman was, that wasn't very far at all.

"Be that as it may, it doesn't change the fact that the Goa'uld are a bigger threat to us, to this planet and the human race, than any terrorist. It's blunt, but it's true," Hammond said firmly, showing exactly why he'd risen to the rank of General.

Maybourne growled softly, but he didn't protest the statement. His previous involvement—and he'd been a thorn in their side for years now—in the project meant that even though no one was going to trust him anywhere near the 'Gate, no matter what his boss said, he did have a good idea just what they were dealing with.

Covarrubias glanced at him, but Jack couldn't tell if it was a reprimand or just a suggestion that he keep his mouth shut. Jack agreed with either one.

Then she turned back to Hammond. "I quite agree, General. And other than the fact that the lock-down is not going to be lifted, I would say, for at least the next week, I want the project to continue, business as usual. Is that understood?" Hammond nodded, and O'Neal bristled on his behalf. "Now, I'd like to see my office. As well, I want to read the reports on everything that has happened since this so-called assassination attempt."

A moment later, she was lead away by an airman, with Maybourne trailing after her like the tail-end of a snake. Jack waited until they were well out of sight before letting loose with an explosive set of expletives, most of them in languages other than English, and some of them not even human. One benefit of a job where a large portion of your time was spent off-world was that you learned ways of cussing out your bosses that they didn't have a hope of understanding, since swear words didn't usually make it into the reports.

The expression on Hammonds face told him that even if the man didn't recognize the words, he knew exactly what O'Neal was saying, but he didn't call him on it.

"I thought she was supposed to just be an observer," Jack said when he'd finally calmed down a bit.

"That was what I was told," Hammond said calmly. Jack wasn't sure how the man could stay so calm.

"She sure doesn't sound like that's what she was told. She sounds like she's taking over command. And can you believe the nerve of her, bringing Maybourne with her? Come on, sir, that's a blatant slap in the face to all of us."

Hammond's expression tightened. "Be that as it may, I expect you to provide an example for your people. You will treat them with respect. They have been sent by the government that we swore an oath to protect. Is that understood?"

Jack lifted his hands to wave the man off. "Completely, sir. Respect is my middle name. I treat everyone with respect, whether they deserve it or not."

Hammond didn't look convinced, and Jack wasn't sure why. "Fine. Now, I suggest you go talk to your team before _they_ are less than respectful." He paused, and Jack could almost see the light bulb going on. "Actually, maybe it's time for SG-1 to take a mission off-world. I believe Dr. Jackson was saying that he needed more time to examine the ruins on PX-4437. Maybe a month would be enough for him."

"Sir!" Jack protested. The world in question was a jungle world, and ruins were overgrown. Examining the ruins would require hacking away vines that made kudzu look like nothing, while keeping an eye out for the oversized felines that hunted in the trees, ready to drop down on the unwary.

"Then again, maybe not. But the first sign of trouble from _any_ of your team, and you'll be off-world so fast that your head will spin. Is that understood, Colonel?"

"Perfectly, sir," Jack said. Maybourne or the jungle. Jack wasn't sure which was worse. However, he didn't really want a first-hand comparison.

Besides, even though they weren't allowed to leave the Cheyenne mountain base, he wanted to be around, just in case. As the General had pointed out, he had sworn an oath to protect his country, and his country seemed to be teetering on the edge of all-out chaos.

* * *

Broots pulled the last disk out of the laptop, then brought up the list of files that he thought might possibly be related to either the so-called 'Mexico facility' or their current situation. The list was still depressingly long. He'd only gotten a part of the Center's database before everything had blown up in his face—thankfully not literally this time, for all that was worth—and even so, there was more data than any one person could hope to read through, word by word, in a lifetime. It was what made smart search engines such a godsend.

He leaned back in the chair and stared at the faded wallpaper on the wall in front of him. It was the third set of wallpaper in the last few weeks, since they had kept moving. They'd moved the day after Mulder and the creepy guy who reminded him of Miss Parker had left, just to be safe. Where the bikers came up with all these safe houses - - mostly farmhouses and the like in the middle of nowhere where no one would think to look for them—he hadn't a clue. The isolation was starting to get to most of them. Oh well, it wasn't like he'd had the time to get out, even if he'd dared to.

Some days he wondered why he was working so hard at this. He didn't know these people, and now he probably had a price on his head because of them. Okay, working for the Center was practically a death sentence anyway, but still, it was familiar. Now he wondered what had happened to Sydney and Miss Parker. Hell, he even wondered about Lyle. Sure, he could probably break into the system to find out, but he didn't dare try. It might lead the Center's thugs back to them and get them all killed.

Especially Jarod. Or maybe except Jarod. Only thing was, if Jarod wasn't killed, he would be locked up in a tiny cell, guarded around the clock, never given another chance to escape. The thought of someone as vibrant, as... good as Jarod being caged like an animal made him sick.

Broots sighed, and rubbed his sore eyes. When you came down to it, that was why he was here. Not because of ideals or anything as high-minded as that. He was here because of Jarod.

And no matter what he said, he wouldn't change anything if given the chance.

Broots hooked up the printer to the laptop and started it chugging away, printing out some of the documents that he thought looked the most promising. He'd looked at so many files that nothing was sticking in his mind, but maybe some fresh eyes would help. Eyes that weren't bloodshot from lack of sleep and too much caffeine certainly couldn't hurt.

He glanced over at the sheet of paper next to the computer listing all the terms he'd used for searches, and a few he hadn't. One item on the list jumped out at him. Debi McCullough. The missing girl who had apparently been taken to this facility. Maybe it was because of the name, because she was young and a daughter, but in his mind, he was picturing his own daughter there, going through the same things that this young woman was going through.

He started sorting papers. Okay, maybe it was _just_ for Jarod that he was there. Or at least still there.

* * *

All of the country was on edge. Many spent their spare time glued to their television sets, waiting to hear if something new had happened. American bases around the world were on high alert, watching for any sign that they might come under attack. Tensions were high, leading to a sharp rise in hate crimes, with fire-bombings of Mosques, Temples, and a few Irish pubs, where business had also dropped to an all-time low.

The fragile peace in Northern Ireland had fallen apart in the face of accusations that members of the IRA had been involved in the assassinations in the United States. The IRA had issued vehement denials, but no one believed them. The proof displayed by the American investigators was too solid. The British government was threatening to move troops back in, to 'keep the peace.'

And the Middle East was on the verge of erupting into total warfare. The leaders of Iran and Iraq, long-time enemies, had found common ground in denouncing the Yankee devil for the so-called evidence that said that Arab terrorists were also involved in the conspiracy. It was all a ruse, they said, to justify the war that the Americans so obviously wanted. Protests outside American bases were growing in size and volume, becoming more and more angry by the day.

Everyone was watching their neighbors, and strangers were suspect just for being unfamiliar. Most large cities had instituted curfews, since rumors were running wild that more attacks were coming, although the where and when was vague. The national guard patrolled the streets, and the highway patrol was pulling over anyone who looked even vaguely suspicious, although a few brave reporters were pointing out that blacks, unlinked as yet to the current problems, were the most likely to be arrested on suspicion.

Then there were the rumors. Rumors of citizens taken away in the middle of the night by police and army. Rumors of secret trials. Rumors of deportations on the flimsiest of evidence. Rumors that were rarely reported, for it would be seen as criticizing the government, leading to accusations of disloyalty.

And yet, there were some parts of the country that had pretty much ignored the panic. Areas where life went on as usual. Where the sun rose and set, the sun was warm, the beer was cold, and people pretty much minded their own business. Places like Key West.

So, it wasn't too surprising that the laid-back inhabitants of that southernmost tip of Florida didn't bother to notice when a few strangers rolled into town. Plenty of strangers came to the Key. After all, wasn't it the best place in the world for a vacation?

Except, these people weren't on vacation.

February 2003


	11. Part Ten

**The Sentinel Project  
Part Ten   
by Lianne Burwell**

  
Spender was quite pleased with the way the first outing of his personal force of Sentinels. The Canadian and his cop Guide had managed to set off silent alarms when they broke into the safe—Spender hadn't included details about that part of the alarm system in the information he'd given them to see how they would handle unexpected problems—and they'd passed that little test with flying colors. Perhaps he should have activated the Sentinel Project long ago.

He quickly dismissed that thought. Sentinels—as the clever young Mr. Sandburg had noted in his unfinished dissertation—were strong-willed, and drawn to roles that were protective. The group downstairs included a park ranger, two soldiers, two cops, one of whom was a former soldier, and a firefighter. Their partners seemed to be all drawn to teaching or psychiatry.

Not one of them would have willingly worked for the Consortium. Even now, he knew that only the current situation kept them compliant, and he wasn't foolish enough to think that they would stay that way once the current crisis was over. At that time, he would probably have to make the choice between letting them go or killing them, since they would be far too much trouble to try to keep locked up.

He hadn't decided which road to take yet, although he was considering letting them go. Doing so would let him keep an eye on any off-spring, as well as leaving open the possibility of taking them again. Perhaps even generate a little bit of goodwill. Dead, they would never be of use in the future.

Unfortunately, there was no chance of ... reeducating them into a more compliant mindset. Three Sentinels had fallen into the Consortium's hands in the past, and the only one to survive the psych team was Alex Barnes, and she'd ended up escaping. She'd also been very unstable by that point. The only good thing was that she had led them straight to Blair Sandburg and his research.

The two men had been returned to the storage level while Spender went through the file they'd stolen from the Department of Justice building. The job had been a test, but the file actually was needed. Johansson—the man whose office they'd broken into—was one of Jerome's top allies within the government, and he'd received word from one of the people in Michaels' camp who'd come to his senses that Johansson kept information in his safe that was of interest to Spender.

His informant had been quite right. The first half of the file were financial information, showing movement of funds into investigations that he doubted that the government had authorized. The rest of the file was in code, but it was one that he recognized easily. He pulled a pad of paper out of a desk drawer and picked up a pen.

And hour later, his good humor had evaporated. The file went into his very high-tech safe, and the entire pad of paper went into a mini incinerator disguised as a waste basket. He watched it flare up, then turn into ashes, imagining feeding Michaels into it, feet first, slowly. The man was not just a fool, he was also insane.

Spender gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to destroy something. Unfortunately, it was too late to stop the man's plans. Besides, it would show his hand sooner than he wanted.

There was nothing to do except wait.

* * *

It was almost dinner time on another dull day. Scully wasn't sure who did the cooking, just that it wasn't her. In fact, she didn't do much at all, which wasn't going over very well with her. She was in hiding, so she couldn't exactly go to the local library. Their... hosts had left a number of books in the various houses they'd stayed in, but she was getting tired of twenty-year old Harlequin romances.

Instead, she was spending a lot of time surfing the net on the laptop Mulder had given her, reading everything from the latest online editions of medical journals to current affairs to amateur fiction. She'd learned more useless facts about television shows she'd never watched than she cared to.

Scully was bored. Without a doubt, bored. And boredom left her with too much time for her to brood. Her current situation. The fate of friends and family that she didn't dare contact. Mulder and his ill-advised relationship.

Scully growled softly to herself and pushed her latest reading material away—a mystery this time, and one so obvious that she'd known whodunit almost before the murder had been committed. She still couldn't believe that Mulder had finally fallen for Krycek's seduction techniques. She'd thought he'd been safe, after not even noticing Krycek's attempts for years. She'd certainly noticed, right from the start. Right from the day he'd shown up, pretending to be a naïve young agent, he'd been trying to get into Mulder's pants. But Mulder had been oblivious, just like he'd been oblivious to everyone else who'd tried to do the same.

But she'd been foolish enough to let them go off together, and now Mulder was acting like a love-sick teenager. Damnit, how could he be this stupid. And then he'd announced that he was heading off with Krycek to hunt down the rat-bastard's contacts. More underworld thugs, no doubt. They were probably more likely to turn the two men over to Spender. Or maybe just Mulder. Maybe this was all some convoluted plan to trap Mulder. She certainly wouldn't put it past him.

The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs next to the parlor told her that it was dinner time. She didn't bother marking her spot in the book. She had no interest in reading on to find out how many hoops the detective had to jump through before realizing that the son's girlfriend was the killer.

There was one change tonight, which caught her off-guard. Sitting on the table next to her plate was a pile of papers. She sat down and picked them up. Shuffling through them, she found that they were technical documents, detailing a project. "What are these?" she asked, holding them up. She wasn't the only with reading material to go with her dinner, she noted.

"I've finished going through the disks," Broots said, not quite meeting her eyes. There was something about the shy, nervous man that reminded her a little of Pendrell, the unfortunate lab tech who'd taken a bullet for her, even though she'd never paid much attention to him. One victim among many of Mulder's quest. "I found a variety of files that might be related to the place we're looking for. One projects that appear to be happening in New Mexico, and two in different locations in Mexico itself. The actual locations are encoded. So are the more technical details. But the top one sounds the most promising."

Scully nodded, not really listening as she flipped through the pages as she ate her dinner mechanically.

Project Tezcatlipoca was a genetic experiment, according the file. It was just a précis, the sort that would be handed to a bureaucrat who had no idea how to interpret scientific data. The basic description was that they were trying to blend human DNA with animal DNA, felines in particular. It sounded like science fiction, or it would have if Scully hadn't seen firsthand the results of similar experiment done by the consortium to create human-alien hybrids. This experiment seemed a logical, if you could call it that, extension of those experiments.

Broots continued on. "I did some looking at Aztec mythology. Tezcatlipoca was one of the gods who helped create the world. It took five tries to get it right. The first time, he was the one to create the world, and when his rival struck him down for it, he turned into a jaguar and destroyed the world in a fit of rage."

"This says they were crossing humans with cats?" Kincaid said, looking up from his own papers. Scully was a little surprised that the man was able to pull even that much out of the précis, although Broots' little folklore lesson probably helped. Kincaid struck her as barely more than a thug. Gun for hire turned biker. Besides, the man had slept with Alex Krycek, which showed bad judgment, and he'd done so even though he knew that Krycek was trying to get into Mulder's pants, and she had little respect for anyone who went for one-night stands.

"That's what it says," she said smoothly, carefully covering her reaction. As far as she was concerned, Kincaid was barely better than a Neanderthal, so the fact that he was understanding the information in the files was a little galling, but she wasn't foolish enough to show it. With Mulder gone, she felt very isolated. She was the only woman in the house, and the only government employee, and it was obvious that some of the bikers were suspicious of her as a result. "It doesn't say whether they had any success, though."

Kincaid seemed to hesitate for a moment. "I think they did," he finally said, speaking very slowly, almost reluctantly.

"And how do you know that?" Scully asked sharply, glaring at him.

"I think I've met a result of this project," he said.

Scully shook her head. "I have trouble believing that they could have produced a viable infant," she protested. "This project was started nearly forty years ago. Anything they produced would probably have been severely retarded."

Kincaid snorted. "You've never met Vincent."

"Who?"

The mercenary hesitated again, frustrating Scully. Finally, he put down the papers. "Your partner met him. He and his people were one of the most valuable resources we had when we were fighting the Morthren. In appearance, he is human- shaped, but his face is feline. He has golden fur and what can only be called a mane. Basically, a human crossed with a lion." The he smiled. "And he loves poetry, studies philosophy, and is the kindest, most gentle man you have ever met. But threaten the people who depend on him, and he is the most ferocious fighter you have ever seen."

"Then how is he not still in this project?" Scully asked, since it was obvious to her that if he was in the hands of the Consortium, he wouldn't have been able to do what Kincaid claimed.

"No one knows. He was found as an infant abandoned outside of a hospital by a man that everyone called Father. And don't ask for more information than that, because I won't tell you." The stubborn way he said it told her not to bother trying.

But the whole idea—if she could believe it—was intriguing. "I'd like to meet this Vincent someday."

Kincaid shot a suspicious look her way. "I don't know about that. Vincent has nearly fallen into the hands of scientists more than once in the past. You'll understand that he prefers to avoid them."

That was irritating. "I'm not going to want to cut him open," she said.

"But you'd just love to run some tests, study him, right? Don't bother denying it."

Scully frowned, but didn't say anything. Kincaid had obviously made up his mind that she was some sort of mad scientist. Besides, she wasn't sure that she believed him. Still, the next time she talked to Mulder—she'd received one email from him so far, informing her that they'd arrived in Chicago in one piece, and asking if they had any news—she would have some questions for him.

"So, what makes you think that this is the so-called Mexico Project that we're supposed to looking for?" she asked Broots rather than dignifying Kincaid's accusations with an answer.

Broots looked like he wanted to be anywhere but in the kitchen right that moment, and her question caught him off- guard. "Well... It's a scientific project, and it's named after an Aztec god, and the indicators say it's in Mexico, which makes it the most likely candidate of the files." He glanced at her nervously, as if he was expecting her to disagree. "I've got decryption software running on all three files, but it will go faster if it's only working on one file, 'cause they've all got different encoding systems. I think this one is the one to work on first, but I wanted..." He trailed off, and Scully frowned. How could someone be so insecure, she didn't know.

She flipped through the sketchy information on the other two projects. One sounded like a SETI project, pretty small, and the other was a warehouse system. There weren't enough details to tell what they were warehousing though.

"Go with this one," Kincaid said firmly, dropping the Tezcatlipoca Project papers on the table.

"Why? What possible reason would Spender have for sending Agent McCullough to a genetics facility?" Scully shot back.

"Instincts. I trust mine. And we won't know why until we find her, unless we can get Spender to tell us," he added sarcastically. "What do you think?" He asked, turning to Jarod—a man who Scully still found an enigma.

"I agree," Jarod said. "We need to make a choice, and this one sounds like our best bet."

Scully sighed. It was beginning to sound like her opinions weren't going to matter much. It was like working with a house full of Mulders without even the pretense of respect. "I agree too," she said reluctantly, even though she really did agree. She turned back to the related pages and skim read them a second time. It really was a fascinating concept, obviously related to the human-alien hybrid program she and Mulder had run into in the past, and while she found it hard to believe that there'd been much success, since the précis made it obvious that there was far more non-human DNA being used in this project than in the others, it did pique her interest.

"Print out anything else in the files once they're decoded," she said, looking down to realize that she'd finished eating. Rather than wait around for the others to finish their own meals, she stood up and headed for the stairs. Time to fire up the laptop again and doing some web-surfing. She wanted to find out if there was anything in any of the online scientific journals to support the information she had so far.

* * *

Broots watched the tiny red-haired woman as she disappeared from sight, then breathed a sigh of relief. "Is it just me or does she remind you of Miss Parker?" he asked Jarod.

Kincaid looked puzzled for a moment, then went back to his dinner. Jarod looked thoughtful. "A little, perhaps. She certainly has the insecurities that Miss Parker had," he said.

"Not to mention the attitude."

"And the high heels," Jarod pointed out, then grinned.

Broots held it in for a moment, but the first giggle finally escaped. Once it did, there was nothing he could do to stop it. All he could do was hang onto his sides and trying to keep from making too much noise. Like Miss Parker, Agent Scully scared him, so he didn't want to do anything to piss her off.

He managed to get himself back under control quickly. "You really think this is the one?" Broots asked, turning to Kincaid. He knew _he_ thought it was, but...

"Yep," Kincaid said, swallowing the mouthful he was chewing on. He scared Broots too, some of the time, with his leather and biker friends, but he had at least gone out of his way to be nice to Broots, which was more than he could say for Agent Scully. "Besides, if it isn't what we're looking for, maybe I can give Vincent some information on where he came from." His eyes went distant for a moment, as if he wasn't really there. "I owe him. Big time."

* * *

"So, what's our next step?" Mulder asked, flopping onto the bed. Alex had already checked the motel room to make sure that no one had broken in and bugged the place while they were out meeting with his contact. Well, Mulder hadn't actually _met_ the man; just seen him from a distance.

He hadn't been crazy about the man, although he couldn't quite put his finger on why. Alex obviously trusted him, as much as he trusted anyone, that is. He hadn't told Mulder about much about the man, other than that he was an information broker, one of the best in the business, and someone he'd known since he was in his teens.

There was an interesting thought. Alex Krycek as a teen. Assuming that Krycek had even been his name. Suddenly Mulder was struck by just how little he really knew about his lover. Basically, nothing about his life before he'd been sent by the Consortium to tag Mulder.

Mulder pushed those thoughts, and the doubts that came with them, out of his mind, concentrating instead on the man, Marco. Maybe it was just that fact that he'd been obviously wealthy—you had to be to eat at that restaurant— handsome and well-dressed. He also hadn't missed the way the man had been looking at Alex. For a brief instant, right there in the restaurant, he'd wanted to get up and go over to tell the man to forget it, Alex was _his_.

Mulder snorted softly to himself. Imagine _him_ being so damned possessive of Krycek. Only a couple of years ago he would have preferred killing the man to being around him. A couple of _months_ ago he had barely tolerated him. Looking back, using his psychology training, he recognized the real reason for his strong feelings. Hurt. Betrayal. Desire.

Suddenly he realized that Alex was staring at him with an expression of exasperation. "Sorry," he said.

"I _said_ ," Alex said pointedly, "that we need to track down what Michaels is up to. That means finding one of his supporters in the Consortium, snatching him, and... convincing him to talk."

The wolfish grin told Mulder just what 'convincing' would entail, and for a moment he balked. Then he remembered just what was happening in his country, and what Marco had hinted at, and he lost his sympathy for the man. "How do we grab someone close enough to Michaels to know what he's up to?" he asked finally, and was rewarded by a smile.

"I have a few ideas," Alex said. "I know of two of his people that are deeply embedded in the underworld, too much so to sneak into the government, no matter how much covering up they do. That means Michaels can't protect them. One is in DC, the other is in Miami. Right now, getting too close to DC would be a bad idea."

Mulder nodded, then groaned. "Another week in the saddle? Just great." His ass ached just thinking of it.

Alex snickered.

March 2003


	12. Part Eleven

**The Sentinel Project  
Part Eleven   
by Lianne Burwell**

  
Key West certainly earned its reputation as the most beautiful, laid back parts of Florida. People traveled from around the world to vacation there, and not just the Jimmy Buffet fans, known as parrotheads. Artisans sold their wares, bars sold drinks, and nearly every part of the small island had beautiful views of the Gulf of Mexico or the Straits of Florida.

The three men who had checked into one of the local hotels, taking one of the small cabins, didn't attract a lot of attention, although the manager wondered why they had come south. All three were northerner pale, and they weren't really dressed for the climate. She hoped they wouldn't get heat stroke or anything, since the only cooling in the cabins were the ceiling fans that at least kept the air moving. The men were already sweating and pasty looking.

They also had an awful lot of luggage for vacationers, including a couple cases that looked pretty damned heavy. Strangely, they'd turned down three offers to help carry the stuff, and rather curtly too. They didn't seem to understand that people around here just liked to be helpful.

She shook her head. It took all kinds.

* * *

Broots was getting closer to decrypting the Project Tezcatlipoca file, but while every layer he went through provided them with more information that the others read eagerly, the next layer used even more complicated encryption routines. At this rate he was going to be tearing his hair out by the roots by the time that he found the location. Unfortunately, the Doctor Malone who had written the reports was very careful about not putting in anything that would give away their location.

He had narrowed—if you could call it that—the possibilities down to the Yucatan peninsula, which wasn't too surprising. He'd seen 60 Minutes reports on the level of official corruption there. If you had enough money to pay the bribes, you could do anything you wanted. Any honest cop... well, from the sound of it, an honest cop had the life span of a fruit fly in that part of Mexico. Or so he'd heard.

But he was getting there. He'd been putting the entire database through another search cycle, this time looking just for the project name, while he continued to work on the decryption. As an intellectual exercise, it was turning out to be almost enjoyable. It wasn't often he could work like this, especially without someone—Miss Parker— leaning over his shoulder and barking at him to work faster.

He was so thoroughly into the puzzle that he didn't even notice the doorbell ringing. He did, however, notice the thunder of footsteps. He froze at the computer, staring at the door out to the hall. He'd set up in the kitchen that morning, instead of staying upstairs in the bedroom, so that he would have ready access to coffee and distractions. This was not a normal distraction.

Jarod came down the back stairs, taking three steps at a time, with a handgun in his hand. He checked the back door, then locked it. Then he gestured for Broots to move to the side of the room where he wouldn't be visible to anyone looking in through the windows.

Everything was silent. Broots held his breath, wondering if this was it. Had the Center found them? Had the Consortium? Was the local law about to hammer down the doors and arrest them all? He rubbed his hands against his thighs trying to dry his palms and told himself that if it were, they would have come through by now. They certainly wouldn't be ringing the doorbell.

The doorbell rang again.

After a moment, he heard the sound of the lock being released and the door opening. Silence.

"Sir?" Silence again.

"If you don't intend to shoot me, Agent Scully, do you think you could put your gun away? I'm still recovering from the last shooting, and I think it would be better if I didn't end up in the hospital again."

* * *

Half an hour later, everyone was gathered in the kitchen, other than the bikers who were out patrolling the fences, disturbed by the fact that a stranger was able to get all the way to their front door without being noticed. It didn't matter than the stranger in question was a federal agent and former soldier. If anything, that made them more nervous.

"How did you find us?" Scully asked, more animated than Kincaid had seen her so far.

Kincaid wanted to know the same thing, although not for the same reason. If this man had found them, then who else would be able to? They would have to move again, and soon. Wolfling was already out arranging that. Scully, on the other hand, didn't seem to be thinking about that. She was focused on the newcomer, eyes glowing.

All right, he wasn't hard on the eyes. Very tall—and Kincaid wondered how it was that he always seemed to end up hanging around men taller than himself. He was nearly bald, and the fringe that was what was left of his hair was gray, and wore glasses. However, under the casual clothing he was wearing, he was bulky in a way that suggested muscle, not middle-aged spread.

Combined with the deep, gravelly voice and an almost overpowering personality, Kincaid could sort of see what Scully was so obviously hung up on AD Skinner. His own tastes didn't run that way, but the man was attractive.

"Mulder's hacker friends. They got me out of the hospital before an assassin could get to me—although it was a close call. They found a safe place for me to stay until I was well enough to travel on my own, then sent me here."

Scully seemed to accept that explanation without any hesitation, but Kincaid wasn't so ready. "You look pretty good for a man that was near death only a few weeks ago," he pointed out, ignoring Scully's glare.

Skinner met his eyes without any sign of emotion. This was definitely a man well-versed in hiding his feelings. "The reports were somewhat exaggerated, I think," he said. "Maybe so that no one would be surprised if I died in the hospital."

"Right," Scully said. "An overdose of painkillers or a pillow over the face. They could just say that it was his injuries. We've seen that sort of thing before."

A ghost of a smile crossed the man's lips when he looked at Scully, and Kincaid was amazed to see the hard-as-nails federal agent start to turn pink.

"How did they find us, though? Mulder left messages for them to contact him, but he didn't tell anyone where we were, and they never got in touch with him."

Skinner shrugged. "Frohicke explained it to me, but I couldn't follow half of it. Basically, they tracked Mulder's messages back here. I'm not completely sure how. You'd have to ask them."

"Great. How can we get in touch with them? Mulder's been trying for weeks. He's been really worried," Kincaid added to soften the question.

Scully wasn't buying it, though. "What's with the inquisition?" she demanded. "Walter's one of the good guys, remember?"

Kincaid's eyebrows went up at her using her boss's first name. Not exactly kosher for the FBI, he thought to himself. "Because if he and the hacker boys found us, who's to say that the bad guys can't? We need to know details so that we can cover our asses better." Both Jarod and Broots were nodding in agreement. Broots looked nervous, as usual, but Jarod was watching the newcomer like a hawk, and Kincaid knew that he wasn't alone in feeling worried.

"I wish I could tell you, but I can't," Skinner said apologetically. "The Consortium was hot on our tails, so we split up. They said they'd be monitoring the boards, and that Mulder knew which ones. Other than that..." He lifted his hands helplessly. "It was safer not to tell me where they were going."

It was all quite reasonable, and Kincaid sighed. "All right. Scully will send Mulder a message telling him that you've joined us. Wolfling is arranging another place for us, so we'll have to figure out a way for them to find us without letting anyone else find out." If the hackers had found them through their emails, then they were going to need a second location for their internet connection. In fact, that might be a good idea. Monitoring that location would give them an early sign if the enemy was tracking them down.

"Send a message? Mulder isn't here?" Skinner said, looking around with a frown.

"He headed off to Chicago with Krycek," Scully said sourly before Kincaid could stop her. Just because the man was one of the good guys didn't mean that they should tell him _everything_. As far as he was concerned, too many people knew already. He needed to let Krycek know that he and Mulder needed to cover their tracks. Not that he really believed that anyone here would actively betray the two men—although he didn't really know enough about Skinner to make that call—but there was always the chance that a casual slip of the tongue, so to speak, at the wrong moment could be a disaster. Loose lips sink ships, as the old World War II motto went.

"Krycek," Skinner said with a grimace. "I know he's on our side, but..." he grimaced.

"It gets worse," Scully said. Suddenly she realized that she had an audience, and one that didn't necessarily share her view of the former assassin. "I'll tell you about it later," she said, glaring at Kincaid. He just stared back at her with a bland expression, while everyone else pretended not to notice

Everyone else except Skinner.

* * *

Jack was about ready to blow. In a couple of weeks, the Covarrubias woman had managed to piss off just about everyone in the base with her high-handed attitude. She may have been sent just as an observer, but she seemed to think that she was in command. She'd gone through mission records, and decided which worlds _she_ thought were worth going back to. The one time Hammond had started to protest, she'd just fixed him with that cold glare and told him that he could complain to the acting President if he liked.

Later, Hammond had quietly told Jack that he'd done just that, and the response had been that if he did not like it, he could always step down from his position. Needless to say, he wasn't about to do that; Hammond was far too protective of his people to let anyone else take over unless he was sure they'd be treated right. So now he was treading a fine line between doing as he was told and trying to restrain his new 'masters.'

"So, now what?" Daniel asked as Jack stormed into his office. At least he'd been able to stay busy during this whole mess. He'd been complaining for months that he had a pile of documents and artifacts to catalogue and examine, but because of pressure from the Joint Chiefs, SG-1 had been in the field so much that he never had the chance. At least, not if he wanted to have any time for anything inconsequential like, say, sleeping and eating. At the moment, he was in researcher heaven, with books spread out all over every flat surface, including the floor.

Jack sat back against the edge of the table, glancing at the plaque that Daniel was trying to translate. It looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't remember which world it had been recovered from. If he asked, Daniel would probably give him a long lecture on the world it was found on, and which Earth culture it derived from, not to mention exactly what the carvings meant. Jack would act bored, and roll his eyes over the 'useless' information, but would feel better afterwards. He wasn't about to let on to the other man just how comforting his info-dumps were.

But at the moment, Jack didn't want to feel better. He wanted to rant and rave to Daniel, then go have a practice session with Teal'c, then have a long talk with Carter that neither Daniel nor Teal'c would understand because it would be full of obscure mil-speak. "We're about to have some off-world visitors," he said sourly, picking up a small and probably fragile pot up off the desk. Daniel drew in a breath to protest, then let it out with a frown.

"What do you mean off-world visitors?" he asked suspiciously.

"It seems that _Ms_ Covarrubias has taken an interest in several past incidents. A set of armbands, for example."

That really got Daniel's attention. "Anise?"

"Exactly," Jack said, setting the pot down before he could break it in frustration. "Apparently, despite the unmitigated disaster the last time they played with those things, our favorite Tok'ra scientist has been working on creating a new version that will last longer, and hopefully not make the wearer a complete asshole." He winced, remembering when SG-1 had been 'volunteered' to test the Tok'ra discovery. They'd nearly ended up dead, and they were still banned from O'Malley's. The armbands had given the wearer speed and strength, but that was balanced by the fact that they also gave the user a belief in their own immortality and infallibility, and only worked for a while before just dropping off; naturally at the worst possible moment. Jack still had occasional nightmares about that time, and suspected that he would for the rest of his life.

Even worse were the other dreams, the ones he woke from still able to remember the feelings that came with the armbands. The feeling like nothing could ever stop you. You were a... a god. Nothing could stand against you, not even the Goa'uld. It had been powerful, like a drug rushing through your system. Jack's mouth went dry, and he firmly pushed those thoughts away. He'd be damned if he was going to fall in the same trap twice.

Daniel had gone white as a ghost. "Are they insane?" he demanded, starting almost as a whisper and ending in almost a shout.

"That's what I said, but they _promised_ that all the side-effects had been either eliminated or reduced to 'acceptable' levels. I told Hammond that I didn't care who ordered what, SG-1 wasn't going to be involved in the new testing."

"They probably wouldn't use us anyway," Daniel said. "Because of our experience with the armbands before, our reactions wouldn't be unbiased, even assuming that they would work on us. We probably still have the antibodies in our systems from the last time. Preferably, they'd want subjects that haven't even heard about what happened to us."

Daniel might have sounded completely reasonable about it, but he was shaking slightly. He blinked twice, then sneezed, which was a bad thing. His allergies, which had been so much trouble in the first year or so of the project, were mostly under control, but tended to show up when he was very stressed. Well, if he wasn't stressed before, he certainly was now.

"Come on," Jack said, slapping Daniel on the shoulder lightly. "I feel the need to go down to the gym and go a few rounds with a punching bag, and you look like you could use the same thing. And then I'll put Anise's picture on a target and let you shoot a couple clips at it." Neither one of them would be looking forward to seeing the Tok'ra woman again. Anise had made it quite clear that she lusted after Daniel, while her host, Freya, had been uncomfortably direct about what she wanted from Jack.

"Better living through violence?" Daniel quipped, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Hey, it works for me."

* * *

Speaking of violence, around the world, tensions were rising as the American government continued to make accusations, providing apparent proof to back them up.

Based on that proof, the British government suspended the Irish peace process and moved in to subdue the Irish Republican Army. The IRA, however, protested their innocence publicly, then melted into the countryside where they still had some arms caches that had not been admitted to during the disarmament process. As the British Army moved into Northern Ireland, the troubles began again. Irish versus English. Catholic versus Protestant. North versus South. A country that had been relatively quiet for a couple of years was on the verge of exploding.

Also explosive was the Middle East. Four different Muslim extremist groups had been tied into the assassinations, groups with a reputation for never working together. All of them loudly denounced the accusations as a trick of the Great Satan. Iran and Iraq had banded together in calling for resistance to any attempt by the American military to extract the people they were demanding to have turned over to them.

And the extremists groups were striking back against their accusers. A bomb had demolished the American embassy in Yemen, which thankfully had been evacuated. Not evacuated was the military base in Saudi Arabia, where seventeen died and many more were injured when bombers managed to get through the gates. The Saudi government, under pressure from their neighbors and their own people, were threatening to expel all foreign nationals from their soil.

The Palestinians were taking advantage of the American distraction to step up their attacks on Israel. In Europe, police were targeting marginal groups, religious minorities, and rebels, sometimes bloodily.

And in the States, reported hate crimes were going through the roof. Not just attacks on Muslims and Irish. Hindus, Buddhists, and Sikhs were also feeling the spillover. Anyone with an action, or even an unusual complexion, was a target.

The world was on the edge. It would take very little to push it over.

April 2003


	13. Part Twelve

**The Sentinel Project  
Part Twelve   
by Lianne Burwell**

  
Mulder hadn't been to Miami in years. For some reason, despite Haitian and Cuban refugees and the voodoo they brought with them, he and Scully hadn't been called in during their time in the X-Files. Still, what he did remember of the city hadn't changed. It was still bright and loud and violent if you strayed into the wrong part of town.

Unfortunately, the wrong part of town was exactly where Alex seemed to be headed. The area they were riding through was full of boarded up abandoned buildings, and groups of loitering young men and women who watched them suspiciously. Mulder swallowed hard when he saw that a lot of them were wearing guns far too openly for his tastes.

But Alex definitely seemed to have a destination in mind, and Mulder stayed close on his tail, trusting him. He definitely didn't want to get separated from the man; not while his gun was buried in his saddlebags where the cops wouldn't see it in a cursory search, but where he also couldn't get at it quickly.

Alex swerved off of the main road onto a side street heading down towards the water. The smell of salt and rotting fish was strong in the air, and Mulder tried not to breath too deeply. They were moving into an area with old track housing, the buildings depressing in their similarity. About half of them had carefully tended yards, although brown from lack of watering. The rest were bare earth and weeds, with more hard eyed men watching them ride past.

Suddenly Alex was slowing down, then turning into a driveway. The house wasn't a standout in the neighborhood - - neither better or worse than most—and it had an... impressive collection of motorcycles outside. Alex came to a stop and shut off the engine. He set the kickstand and dismounted with an impressive amount of ease for a man that had only one natural arm. It was one of the reasons Alex had decided on motorcycles, other than the fact that it was something that the Hunters were able to easily supply. Anyone who was looking for Alex Krycek, one-armed assassin, wouldn't look for him to be riding a motorcycle, since no one with only one arm would be on one.

Mulder pulled to a stop next to him, eyeing the neighborhood dubiously. "Relax," Krycek said softly.

Mulder frowned at him. "Are you crazy? How the hell am I supposed to relax? We're going to be lucky to get out of here alive."

"Trust me," Alex said with a grin.

Instead of knocking on the front door, he headed around the side into the backyard. The kitchen door was open, and he walked straight in. Four shotguns and two handguns greeted them. Alex held his hands out to the side. "Wolfling says Texas is fine, but Miami is finer," he said.

The five men and one woman relaxed fractionally. The guns were put down, but stayed within reach. "I remember you," one of the men said darkly. "Where's the truck?"

Alex shrugged. "Last time I saw it, it was in New York. Don't know what Kincaid—Cade—did with it. There wasn't time to bring it back before flying west." Mulder blinked, then remember what he'd been told in New York when Alex had shown up with Kincaid in tow.

He just wished that Alex had bothered to tell him that they were heading for the Hunters stronghold in Miami. He might have been a little less worried. Then again, maybe not. Considering some of the stories he'd heard about the Hunters through the FBI, just because Wolfling was trustable, didn't mean the rest were.

The man grunted, and the room fell silent. Mulder stared around at the grimy yellow walls and the metal cabinets in a sickening shade of avocado green that had been so popular in the seventies. Nothing had been done to the room since those days, obviously, and storm damage over the years had left the linoleum peeling up around the corners and the wooden doorframes showing signs of rot and insect damage. It was horrific. Tacky even. He loved it.

After a moment, the bikers obviously tired of waiting for Alex to speak first. "What do you need?" one of the women said with a sigh. Alex grinned as if this was what he'd been waiting for.

"We have an idea of who is behind the current troubles. To get proof, we need to... talk to someone."

"You're going to snatch someone," the woman, frowning. "And you want us to help you. Are you nuts?"

Mulder could feel his lips twitching. He'd said pretty much the same thing to Alex on more than one occasion. "Don't worry," Alex said. "Nothing illegal. Mostly."

The woman was shaking her head hard, making her dreadlocks swing wildly. "No way. The police around here are getting damn trigger-happy. More than usual. If they see anything even _slightly_ suspicious, they're shooting first, apologizing later, assuming that they even bother to apologize. There have been more accusations of police brutality around here than anywhere else these days, even LA. Doesn't matter if what you want is illegal or not, the Hunters are keeping their heads low. As long as we stick to our own neighborhoods, we get to stay in one piece."

"So you let them pen you in? Tell you where you can go, what you can do?" Alex asked mildly, making Mulder's ears prick up. A very nice bit of psychology, which surprised him. Or maybe it shouldn't have. After all, Alex had always known just how to yank _his_ chain, getting the reaction he wanted.

The group bristled, en group, but didn't say anything. "The people behind this haven't finished," Alex continued. "We've been hunting them, not the patsies that the government keep going on about. The man we're after is involved, and more than just a bit. We've learned that they plan another attack, and we need to know _what_."

"Another attack?" Alex nodded. "Another assassination?"

Alex shook his head. "I doubt it. The assassination got everyone worked up, but they need something more to tip us over into war. Something bigger."

There was a laugh. "Trying to kill the president isn't big enough?"

Alex glared at the man. "No. It isn't. But it makes a good primer."

"So, what do you think is going to happen?" the woman said, taking control back from her people. Mulder wondered what her position in the gang was. Women didn't usually have much status in a biker gang, except as ornaments. On the other hand, Wolfling wasn't exactly what he'd expected as a biker either, from the short time he'd spent with the man. Maybe the woman was his second in command, or something. If she was, it meant that she was very tough, to get and keep the respect of the men in the gang.

"Something big. Something with a high death count, probably of ordinary people. The sort of thing where people could stop and say 'that could have been me.' That way, _no_ one will protest when the country goes to war over it."

The woman stared at him for a long moment. "You're talking the government. Someone in the government is involved," she said, proving that she could read between the lines.

Alex glanced at Mulder and grimaced. "Yeah," he said softly. "That's what we believe."

"Proof?"

"Nothing to stand up in court, even if we could get it that far."

"And this man you want to grab?"

"Cuban. A gang lord with... friends in DC. Friends that he helps out from time to time."

The woman seemed to be thinking it through. "So, if he's a criminal, then the cops are more likely to look the other way, chalking it up as just gang warfare. His friends might push, but they probably won't, since they wouldn't want to be associated with a crook. And if they did, it wouldn't be immediately, so we can cover our tracks."

Mulder suppressed a smile; he didn't want to annoy the woman now that she sounded like she was going to go along with whatever it was that Alex was planning.

Of course, he didn't have a _clue_ what Alex was planning, other than kidnapping a major Miami criminal, which sounded pretty insane to him. On the other hand, they didn't have a lot of leads to follow, so unless they were going to leave the country before everything could go to hell, they needed to take some chances.

"All right," the woman said, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the slightly grubby surface of the kitchen table. "Tell me what you want, and I'll tell you what you can have.

* * *

"Any word from Mulder?"

Dana looked up as Walter came into the room, and sighed. "Nothing since the email saying that they were leaving Chicago. He wouldn't even tell me where they were heading next," she said, her lips tightening in irritation. Okay, the reason made sense—there was always the chance that the e-mail might be intercepted by the wrong people—but she still didn't like it.

Walter growled under his breath. "We _need_ to know where he is," he said, sitting down across the dining room table. The house they'd been moved to after Walter's arrival was another old farm house, with large foreclosure signs prominently placed. Wolfling said that they wouldn't be bothered; he knew someone at the bank. And because they'd been transported in a closed van—for their protection, Wolfling had said—Dana didn't even have any idea where they were, other than that it had taken about five hours to get there. For all she knew, they were at the next farm over from where they had been, and they'd spent the hours driving in circles.

"I know," she said, trying to sooth the upset man. "I'm worried too. Between the Consortium hunting for him and the fact that he's traveling with Krycek, he's in a lot of danger, and he doesn't have anyone with him that he can _really_ trust."

Walter frowned for a moment. "Right," he said.

His response seemed a little lackluster. Then Dana realized what was wrong and wished she could kick herself. For a long time, she and Mulder had seen Walter as someone they couldn't trust either. But in his case, the Consortium had been blackmailing him into working for them. Krycek did it because he was an amoral bastard with no compunctions about killing a person. He might paint a pretty picture about changing sides out of higher morals, but she knew the truth: After nearly being killed several times by his old bosses for screwing up, he figured he'd get further with their enemies. Not to mention into Mulder's pants. And he had a history with Walter that wasn't much better.

"So, what do you think about the plans to head down to Mexico?" she asked, breaking the awkward silence. The nervous little man, Broots—and don't think she really trusted him or his playmate, Jarod—had gotten several layers into the files on the Tezcatlipoca project. They didn't have an exact location, but they'd narrowed it down far enough to start making travel plans. Scully wasn't involved in that, so she had now idea how they were getting down to the Yucatan peninsula, or what they were going to do when they got there. She wasn't even sure that going was a smart idea. She liked Agent McCullough well enough, but surely they should be staying where they were, trying to figure out a way to avert the war that was starting to look inevitable.

But Kincaid was determined to find his little playmate, and since he was the one with the ties to the Hunters—which said a lot about him—and the two from the Center were backing him up, she didn't have much say in the matter. It had been made _quite_ clear to her that if she didn't like it, she could stay behind when they left, and she wasn't willing to do that.

Besides, the files that Broots _had_ decoded were fascinating reading. They'd gone beyond the simple précis that they'd first had, and into the scientific details. On one level she was horrified by what she read, but on another, she was amazed at how much progress in genetics this project had made in the last forty years.

"I don't like it," Walter said bluntly, rubbing at his eyes. He looked tired, Scully thought sympathetically. She could empathize. The waiting was getting to all of them. "We need to be here, not running off to another country after an agent who should be able to take care of herself. _Here_ is where the greatest danger is," he said, echoing her own thoughts.

Scully sighed. "Yes, but everyone else is heading for Mexico, so we basically have a choice between go along with them, or striking out on our own."

"That might not be such a bad idea," Walter said, leaning in closer. "Despite everything, I still have... friends that might be able to help us."

"Help us do what?" Scully said helplessly. "We have no idea who is behind all of this, or how to stop them."

Walter looked out the window, a small smile on his face. "I have a few ideas, but we would have to find Mulder first."

"Which brings us back to the problem that we have no idea where he is, other than that he was in Chicago. We don't even know how he _left_ Chicago. He could be flying to California or driving to New York, for all we know, and there's no way for us to trace him without giving him away _and_ us." She shook her head. "As much as I hate to admit it, we need to stick with the others. It's too risky right now. And besides, we might actually find something in this lab in Mexico to help our fight." She wasn't sure what, but saying it helped.

Walter still didn't look happy. "I don't like it," he said. "But for the time being, you may be right. I still don't trust them."

Scully picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. Cold. "I don't know," she said reluctantly. "I guess I don't know enough about them to trust them or distrust them." She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. "But I am glad you're here, Walter," she said, daring to actually use his given name aloud. "I don't feel quite so... alone."

He stared at her for a moment, then an almost shy smile spread across his face. He reached across the table and took her hand. "Neither one of us is alone," he said, and squeezed her hand gently.

They sat like that for a long while, just smiling at each other.

And they weren't alone.

* * *

After the emergency, Suzanne kept a close eye on her daughter. There were no further attacks like the one that had so terrified them both, but the aftereffects weren't fast to fade.

Debi continued to suffer from a weakness that kept her to her bed. Suzanne helped her to and from the bathroom to wash, and other things. Meals were delivered, and she brought them to Debi, helping her feed herself as though she was the little child that she remembered so well. She'd lost that child during the war. She'd tried to keep Debi from the horrors of the alien war, but when one Ironhorse clone had tried to kill her, and the other had committed suicide to stop him, they'd had to go underground, and a childhood had been a luxury they could rarely afford.

And even after the end of the war, the attacks by enemies they hadn't been able to identify had torn her child from her. Suzanne had faked her own death, with Debi's blessing, and Debi had gone into foster care. Unlike some of the stories they'd heard in the news, Debi had thrived. John had made sure that Suzanne knew exactly what was happening with her daughter, even after she went to Quantico and joined the FBI, looking for the men who had being trying to kill them, and it had become much more difficult to keep tabs on her.

Debi had grown up to be a strong and confident woman, but Suzanne saw very little of that in the girl in the bed. Every day, someone came to give her an injection; always silently, no matter how many questions Suzanne asked. Meals for Debi were simple and bland. She'd taken to her bed and showed no interest in trying to leave it.

She seemed to be in shock. The revelation that she was pregnant had hit her hard, especially since it was obvious that the pregnancy wasn't normal. Soon after her attack, her belly had begun to grow at a pace that could not be ignored. She already looked like a young woman who was nearly five months pregnant, not one who could not be much more than a month along.

Suzanne had never trained for general practice or obstetrics, but she did what she could to monitor the progression of the pregnancy. The baby was already moving, and more than she remembered Debi moving, even late in her pregnancy. But she did think that it was only one baby, which was a blessing. She didn't want to know what complications there might be if it was twins, or worse.

But the thing that scared her was what would happen when it came time for the delivery. God only knew how this pregnancy would end, or how the baby would be delivered. Surely a cesarean section. After all, they couldn't expect Debi to deliver whatever it was—and looking at Ceto, she had a few ideas—naturally.

Could they?

May 2003


	14. Part Thirteen

**The Sentinel Project  
Part Thirteen   
by Lianne Burwell**

  
"No."

"The matter is not open for debate, Colonel."

Jack glared at the cold-eyed blonde. "And I said no. We've already played guinea pig for those things once before, and we are _not_ doing it again."

"We have eliminated the side-effects," Anise said in that weird doubled over voice that marked a snake, whether Goa'uld or Tok'ra.

Jack didn't bother looking at her. As far as he was concerned, she didn't exist. "The last time we put those damned things on, you nearly lost SG-1, or have you forgotten?"

"I read the report, Colonel," Covarrubias said calmly from behind her desk. "And that is why I want SG-1 to test the new version of the armbands. You know what the effects were on the first set, so you can properly evaluate the new ones."

"But our reactions will be tainted by that previous experience," Jack protested, pulling out Daniel's argument. "No matter what these things do, we're going to be expecting the same thing as before to happen."

"He has a point," Hammond said, and Jack mentally thanked the man for backing him up. Covarrubias had been running roughshod over the general since her arrival, but Hammond was loyal to his people. His reaction to finding out that the armbands were still around and that the Tok'ra were still playing with them had been impressive to see. He'd also been furious when Covarrubias had overridden him about letting Freya back on base. After their last experience with her, he'd said it would be a cold day in hell before he let her back into SGC. Covarrubias hadn't been impressed.

"I don't care what sort of point he has, General. SG-1 will be trying the new version of the armbands tomorrow. If they do not like it, they can spend the next few years in a jail cell for treason. Is that understood?"

Jack straightened up, very stiff. "Yes, ma'am," he said, trying not to spit the words. "I have lodged my protest. And if anything happens to my people, I am holding you personally responsible.

She waved him away. He pivoted on his heel, and headed out the office door, ignoring Maybourne's smirk as he left the room. He found his team waiting for him in the hallway with varying degrees of anxiety on their faces. Carter took one look at his face and started cursing under her breath. Jack was tempted to join her, but as team leader, it was now his turn to be calm about this.

"Tomorrow morning," he said. He wanted to say more, but he couldn't get the words out. He planned to change into workout gear and head down to the gym to work out his frustrations on a heavy bag. At that moment, he didn't even trust himself to try a workout against a living person. He wanted to hurt something, badly.

"Colonel."

Jack turned around to find Freya standing just outside Covarrubias' door. The unmodified voice and lack of glowing eyes told him that Anise had been temporarily pushed to the back. "Yes?" he said tightly.

"I promise. We have dealt with the... unfortunate side effects from the last time," she said, her eyes never leaving his face. It made his skin crawl. "Your people will be quite safe."

Jack shook his head. "No they won't be. All that means is that we have to deal with a whole new set of side effects. You cannot guarantee anything."

Before she could protest, he turned and walked away, his team trailing behind him.

"What if we refuse?" Carter asked as they rounded the corner.

Jack's jaw tightened. "Then we end up in a military jail for refusing a direct order from the White House," he said.

"Great," Daniel muttered. "In case they've forgotten, I'm a civilian and so is Teal'c."

"Yep, but you both signed papers putting you under the command of the military. You might get away with quitting, but they'd probably lock you up to make sure that you don't blab to the press. And Teal'c would be booted off planet so fast that Junior's head would spin."

"I am not leaving." Teal'c said calmly from behind them.

"Yeah, well you were left out of it last time," Daniel said. Then he winced. "Sorry. I'm real glad you were around to pull our butts out of the fire, if I didn't tell you before."

"And if necessary, I will do so again."

Jack shook his head. "No go, big guy. One of the improvements means that you're in it too, this time."

"If they fixed things so that they work on a host? Then why don't they use their own people as guinea pigs?"

"One of the many questions I asked, Sam," Jack said, suddenly feeling very tired. "All I was told was that one of the things they want to test is that the modified virus," he shuddered, "will work on people who have previously developed antibodies. These new versions supposedly don't have a time limit, don't act like a drug in the system, and are completely controllable. We have nothing to worry about.

"So, basically we're screwed," Daniel said.

"In a word, yeah."

* * *

Krycek slipped over the wall silently, having already disabled the alarm system. Montoya's enclave had a state of the art system, but for him, it had been a piece of cake. The Hunters had done an excellent job getting all the information he needed for the job. Building plans, security system details, guard patrol routes. No dogs, thankfully. Apparently Montoya didn't like being woken by their barking. Besides, he figured the electronics did a much better job.

Krycek wasn't going to complain. He hated guard dogs. They were so messy to take care of.

The problem with electronic security systems, though, was that they couldn't think for themselves. A little hacking, a bit of rewiring, and they hummed along happily, ignoring everything that went on around them. The images that were being displayed on the monitors inside were a simple little loop, designed so that no one watching would ever notice the difference. Hell, they were probably jerking off to porno magazines, not watching the screens.

Krycek slapped himself mentally for that. Thinking that way was a good way to end up dead. You had to act as though you were going up against the best, most alert people in the business. Otherwise you got sloppy.

Still, it was hard not to get overconfident when things went this smoothly. The French doors that went from the pool area to an overdone family room had a simple latch, and he had already taken care of the electronic sensors. He didn't even have to think about picking the lock, it was so easy. He did keep a wary eye out for guards, though. According to the Hunters, the guards did patrol from time to time, either on a random schedule, or simply whenever they felt like it, either from boredom or duty.

A tiny flash of light, all but invisible in the corner of the room, caught his eye. He doubted that anyone who didn't know where it was would have noticed. Instantly, he froze. The question was, was it a heat detector or a motion detector? If it was a heat detector, he was screwed.

But the room was already warm, so making a quick choice, Krycek decided to go with motion detector.

To the average guy on the street, a motion detector sounded impressive, but truth was, if you knew what you were doing, they were easy to defeat. All you had to do was move slow enough that you didn't trigger the sensor. Moving slowly and deliberately, he moved around the edge of the room, heading for the French doors that mirrored the ones leading outside. These ones went from the family room to the hallway, though, and he was pretty sure that there wouldn't been any motion detectors in the hallways, since even at this hour, there would be people moving around house.

However, the unexpected security in the family room made Krycek cautious. He was armed, but the last thing he wanted was to start shooting, if only because it would draw unwelcome attention. So just to be safe, he paused at the door and checked it carefully.

He was almost unsurprised to note the tiny wires going from the door frame into the door, right near the hinges. His guess was that there were sensor plates set into the doors, and the moment that he opened the doors, an alarm would be set off. Suddenly, the lax security didn't seem quite so lax.

Still, with the right gear and training, even that alarm could be bypassed, and he had both. It took a while, working at the slow pace that the motion detectors demanded, but with a little fiddling, he had the door open and no alarms. Hopefully.

From there, it was just a matter of following the plans, keeping a careful eye out for any more surprises, or other visitors, until he reached the master bedroom. He was a little surprised when a close examination of the bedroom door didn't show any more unexpected alarms, but since it was on the second floor, maybe Senor Estoban thought that they weren't needed. The second floor situation was why he'd come in through the family room instead of directly into the bedroom.

Satisfied that the coast was clear, relatively speaking, Krycek pushed the door open slowly, and slipped into the darkened room.

What he found on the other side had to be the largest, most overdone bedroom he'd ever had the misfortune to see, and one that had obviously never been touched by a professional decorator. Everything was of the finest quality, from the hand-carved, king-sized four-poster bed in the center of the room to the antique tapestry on the wall, but there was just too much, and there didn't seem to be any consideration of whether it actually went together. Krycek was no interior decorator himself, but even he could tell tacky when he saw it.

There were also _two_ lumps in the bed, one of them softly snoring. He'd been hoping that Montoya would be alone, but he hadn't counted on it. He moved stealthily to the side of the bed with the smaller lump—the lady of the day, or night, he assumed.

Once upon a time he would have just slit her throat and been done with it: the only good witness was a dead one. It might even reinforce the idea that the kidnapping was orchestrated by a rival gang. However, he doubted that Mulder would appreciate it if he found out, and neither would the Hunters. As a result, he had to reject that idea. However, that didn't mean Montoya needed to know that.

Krycek pulled a small tube from a pocket on the inside of his jacket. It was one of several he had ready in case he ran into an unexpected dog or a security guard. He aimed it at the girl's face—a fairly pretty blonde, he noted dispassionately—and pressed a button on the side. There was a barely audible hiss, and she gasped briefly, her eyes flying open. Then they closed again, and she slipped into a drugged sleep that would have her out of commission for about two hours; maybe a little longer considering her size.

Then he eased back the covers and pulled a packet out of his pocket and tore the corner off, a grin on his face. He doubted that this was what Heinz had in mind when they started putting ketchup in the takeout packets, but he certainly appreciated it.

A few artistic minutes later, the stage was set. Krycek kicked the empty packets under the bed, then pulled the knife out of the sheath in the small of his back. He smeared some of the ketchup on the blade, promising himself that he would make sure it got properly cleaned before the night was over. He rolled the rim of his cap down over his face, then he moved around the bed to Montoya and slapped one gloved hand down onto the man's mouth, waking him instantly.

"I suggest you stay very, very still," he told the man in deliberately accented Spanish. Being Cuban, the man would recognize a Russian accent when he heard it. For emphasis, he waved the knife in the man's field of view, then used the edge of the top sheet to clean off the ketchup. Under normal circumstances, anyone would recognize the scent as condiment, not blood, but woken up in the middle of the night, inside his supposedly secure compound, by a masked man in black, waving a knife that looked like it was covered in blood, Montoya was obviously not at his best. His eyes darted to the side, and he actually whimpered when he saw his young paramour with red smeared thickly on her throat, staining the sheets around her. The fact that her chest was rising and falling, and her eyes were shut, should have been a clue, but the clue bus definitely wasn't stopping here at the moment.

Krycek grinned under the mask. It covered his face completely, so that Montoya couldn't see a single detail of his features, but from his side it was almost transparent, letting him see and breathe easily. He knew from long training with the Consortium just how terrifying facing a faceless intruder would be. It was a trick he'd used himself before, and found amusing. If Montoya wanted terrifying, he should try being possessed by a shapeless alien. He should try being locked in a missile silo, alone, with no supplies. This was nothing.

"Now, Mr. Montoya, I want you to do exactly what I tell you to. If you do, you just might come out of this alive. Fuck me in anyway, and I will kill you. Is that understood?" The man nodded, his eyes wide with terror. What a wimp. "Good. Now, get up."

The man slid out of bed, collapsing to his knees on the floor. Krycek grabbed him by the back of his neck and 'helped' him to his feet. Then he pushed him towards the door. For a moment, Montoya resisted. "I'm naked," he said.

Krycek snickered softly to himself. "Didn't you ever go streaking as a young man?" he said. "Move."

Outside the bedroom, Krycek pressed the knife to the back of the man's neck, almost hard enough to part the skin. "The family room is wired. Where can we leave the building so that alarms will not be raised and no one will see us?"

"Why should I tell you?" Montoya said, trying to sound tough.

"Because if you don't, I will kill you now and take my chances. And if you lead me into a trap, I will kill you before your guards can kill me. The only hope you have is to lead the way out of here. Is that understood?" He pressed harder, and a tiny line of blood formed on the man's neck.

"Understood," Montoya said, and he could hear the surrender in the man's voice. A very dark part of him thrilled to it, and was tempted to cut the man a little more. Unfortunately, Mulder was waiting down the street, hidden in a grove with the car.

Luckily, Montoya did as he was told, leading him down to the end of the hallway. The bastard actually had a hidden door, with a stairwell behind it. This was probably his escape route in case he was raided, either by his enemies or the police. Instead, it was going to be their ticket out of there with no one the wiser.

Outside the house, it took little time to get back to where he'd come over the fence. This was the only tricky part, since he had to send Montoya over first, then get over before the man could run or raise the alarm.

Sure enough, Montoya ran, but he was over fifty and getting thick around the waist, and it took little effort for Krycek to bring him down. "Very stupid," he hissed, the knife pressed into the man's throat. Then he reversed his grip and slammed the hilt against the man's forehead. Moving quickly, he deactivated the little techie toys that had screwed with the security electronics, then returned to the unconscious man. Montoya definitely needed to go on a diet, he thought to himself as he manhandled the man into a fireman's carry.

* * *

Mulder was sitting behind the wheel of the car the Hunters had found for them, praying that no one came by at the wrong moment. Luckily, in the semi-exclusive neighborhood, the cops weren't likely to stop a car that looked like it belonged, and the nearly new Cadillac certainly did. He had no idea where the bikers had found the vehicle, just that they'd been promised it wasn't stolen.

He tapped his fingertips against the steering wheel, wishing that he dared start the car so that he could at least listen to the radio while he waited. Unfortunately, that might attract the wrong sort of attention. Instead, he was stuck there with nothing to do, not even a book to read, waiting for Alex to show up with Montoya in tow, of for all hell to break loose.

He was debating getting out of the car and doing a quick walk around—just enough to stretch his legs, he told himself—when a segment of shadows started to move. He reached down and wrapped his hand around the grip of his pistol. Then the shape resolved itself into Alex, mask still over his face, with a naked man slung over his shoulder,

Mulder opened the door and got out. Alex motioned to the back of the car, and Mulder reached back in to pop the trunk. "Any problems?" he whispered.

Alex pulled off his mask and handed it to Mulder. "Nah, not a one," he said with a bone-chilling grin. It was an expression that promised quick and bloody death to anyone that got in his way, and all it did was make Mulder hard.

Alex dumped the man in the trunk, where he shifted slightly an groaned. Alex pulled out his bag of tricks, and produced a damp cloth in a plastic container. He pressed the cloth to Montoya's face, and the man subsided. Then he used plastic riot handcuffs to tie the man's hands and feet. This puppy was going nowhere, except for where they took him. And when they got there, Montoya was going to spill his guts.

Mulder just hoped that they wouldn't have to hurt the man to get that information.

June 2003


	15. Part Fourteen

**The Sentinel Project  
Part Fourteen   
by Lianne Burwell**

  
The two vehicles arrived early in the morning, when the sun was barely above the horizon. One was a pickup truck, with a covered back, that would be taking the last of the personal items that had accumulated in the Texas farmhouse during their stay.

The second was an ancient Volkswagen mini-bus, its color coming more from the rust covering it than the paint that had been applied sometime in the distant past. Kincaid walked around the heap, amazed that it was still running, and snickered to himself when he saw the rows of decals on the back door, urging him to 'make love not war' and hoping for 'peace'. It was as if one of those vans he'd seen in his childhood driven by long-haired hippies had been parked in a backyard somewhere and had just been uncovered.

But despite the ancient vintage of the vehicle and the generally decrepit exterior—and interior, he noted, looking through one slightly grimy window—the engine was running quite smoothly, and trusting Wolfling, he was sure that it would get them where they wanted to go. He opened the back of the van and started loading their equipment.

Getting to the Yucatan would be a long trip by van, but it was definitely safer than taking a plane. A private plane would be too expensive, and would attract the attention of the DEA probably. As for commercial flights, forget it. Security at airports was too tight these days, and probably most of the group had prices on their heads. In fact, between the Consortium and the Center, the only ones who probably _weren't_ being hunted were the Hunters and himself, and he wasn't willing to bet his life on that.

Crossing the border at an official border crossing would probably be just as dangerous, even if they picked a quiet out of the way one, so they were going to cross over into Mexico illegally. The farmhouse they'd been staying in was fairly close to the border, and Wolfling knew a spot that was used by smugglers that the DEA hadn't yet stumbled onto. Using it, they would be out of the country in a couple of hours, and well on their way south before the end of the day.

The only question was how many of them were going. Kincaid was going; that much was sure. All he had to do was close his eyes and he could see the blonde pixie-like child who had done more than anyone else to keep them from despairing during the long months of the fight against the Morthren. Hiding out in a secret base hidden in the sewers, rarely seeing blue sky, fighting a fight that seemed hopeless. It would have been far too easy to just give up. But giving up would have destroyed _her_ world, and looking into her blue eyes, Kincaid hadn't been able to do that. None of them had.

And now she was a prisoner somewhere, with God only knew what happening to her, and he was going to find her and rescue her. He refused to consider any other options.

But no matter what they said, that didn't mean any of the others had to go with him. Wolfling and the various members of the Hunters weren't, of course. A trip through the jungles of Mexico to assault a secret lab engaging in illegal human experimentation wasn't exactly something they were ready for, so Kincaid didn't blame them. But he wasn't sure why the others were coming. Jarod and Brooks, Scully and her boss, none of them had any sort of personal stake in finding and rescuing Debi. In fact, Scully was the only one who had even met her.

"Just about ready?" Jarod asked from the doorway as Kincaid pushed another case into the back of the van. Weapons and plastique had been obtained from one of Wolfling's contacts. Whatever they were heading for, they would be as well armed as a small army.

Kincaid slammed closed the van's back door. "Yep. Just need to load the personal bags and we can go." Then he hesitated. "You don't have to come, you know. Any of you."

Jarod's expression darkened. "I was taken from my parents as a child. I was raised as a science experiment, exploited in just about every way imaginable. If you think I'd leave anyone else in that sort of situation, think again." The cold tone to his voice told Kincaid just how serious the man was.

"Sorry," he said, and he really was. Now that he thought about it, what the man said made sense. During the last couple of weeks of sharing a house with the men, he'd spent a fair bit of time talking with both Jarod and Broots; enough to get a rough outline of their lives. He should have realized just how much Debi's situation would resonate.

And if Jarod was coming, Broots would be coming too. Aside from the moaning and thumping that came from their room at all hours, Broots had latched onto Jarod with an almost desperate intensity. From what they'd told Kincaid, the Center didn't let anyone get away, not even employees, and once they realized that Broots had handed over almost their entire database to Jarod, an escaped subject determined to bring them down, they would be out to kill the man. Despite his nervous, almost timid behavior, Kincaid had to respect the man for taking that risk.

That only left Scully and Skinner to worry about. Given the chance, Kincaid would leave them behind happily. Scully's attitude drove him up the wall, and he didn't trust her boss any further than he could throw him. Most of the time he seemed all right, but every so often, Kincaid caught him staring at them with the coldest expression he'd ever seen. To put it simply, the man gave him the willies. Kincaid didn't trust him. He didn't believe the man's story, no matter how logical it was. And he sure as hell didn't want him at his back in a firefight.

But he also didn't want to let the man out of his sight, at least not while Skinner knew what their plans were.

He hadn't told anyone else of his suspicions yet, though. Scully obviously thought that the man walked on water, and she'd been much easier to deal with since he'd shown up, if nothing else. It was hard to believe that the woman making goo-goo eyes at the oblivious older man was the same one who'd thrown a fit over Mulder leaving with Krycek and who loved to catalogue Krycek's fault whenever she could. Based on the way she talked, Krycek should have had horns, a tail, and cloven hooves instead of feet, while Skinner should be walking on air.

Speak of the...

Scully and Skinner were coming down the porch steps, both dressed casually in blue jeans, her with a flannel shirt and him in a Henley, although neither of them was dirty enough to pull of the image of the sort of down on their luck tourists who would be traveling around Mexico in an ancient van, but they would have to do. Scully was carrying a duffle bag, while Skinner was carrying a laptop bag that would have to be hidden under the other baggage. Of course, if anyone actually insisted on searching the van, the weapons would catch their attention first.

Skinner handed over the laptop bag, a touch reluctantly Kincaid thought, and Kincaid stowed it away under one of the seats, wedged in place by his own bag of clothes. Scully hung onto her own bag as if it were a lifeline. "I still think this is a mistake," Skinner muttered under his breath.

"If you want to stay around here and wait for Mulder, feel fine," Kincaid said, itching to slug the man. Why the man had this effect on him, he didn't know. Having heard, in excruciating detail, about the incident with the nanocytes, he wished he had that palm pilot of Krycek's.

Skinner glanced at Scully, who was trying to decide which seat she preferred. "No. Splitting up would be an even worse mistake," he growled. "I just hope that this doesn't end up being a wild goose chase."

For once, Kincaid actually agreed with him. There was no real evidence to say that they were going to find Debi at this Project Tezcatlipoca, but he for one was tired of sitting around and doing nothing. Even if it turned out to be a mistake, at least they were doing something. Besides, it might give him something he could pass onto Vincent. The lion-man had saved his life more than once in the past, and if he could give the man some answers about his origins, he would feel as if he was repaying the man in some small way.

Both the van and the truck were loaded, and the Hunters were ready to be on their way. The band of five got into the van, Kincaid behind the wheel, and he waved to Wolfling. The biker waved back, and started his motorcycle. They would follow him to the border crossing, and then they would be on their own.

* * *

Krycek pulled to a stop, well outside of town, out in alligator country. After he turned off the car, the silence was almost deafening, at least at first. Then the sounds of nature—insects and bird, water moving, and things in the water also moving—came back, combining with the oppressive humidity to create an exotic atmosphere. Krycek glanced over at Mulder, who was rubbing his eyes. He'd fallen asleep during the long drive. The sun was climbing in the sky, although they still had some time before it hit its zenith.

"Where are we?" Mulder asked. Then a yawn nearly split his face, making Krycek smile fondly.

"About an hour west of Miami," he said, gesturing around at the almost wilderness landscape around them. "No interruptions."

Mulder frowned. "We aren't going to _really_ hurt him, are we?" He sounded like he wasn't really sure whether that would be a bad thing or a good thing yet. Still, he was learning.

"Nah," Krycek reassured him. "We'll scare him, get the information we need, then point him towards the main road." Montoya struck him as the type who would cave in pretty damn quick. Still, if he didn't, Krycek would happily torture him until he did. He had a few tricks up his sleeve that Mulder wouldn't even recognize.

That brought a sneaky smile to Mulder's face. "Barefoot and naked?"

Krycek shrugged, not hiding his own grin. "I can't think of anyone more deserving," he said. "Come on."

He got out of the car and stretched to get rid of some of the kinks from the long drive. He had ditched the black sweater early on, leaving him in black pants and a bright green t-shirt with a local logo on it. Nothing that would make a cop look twice. He headed over to the edge of the creek that the dirt road was following and relieved himself into the water. There was nothing worse that being interrupted by a full bladder when you were... in the middle of something. Then he left Mulder to do the same while he headed back to the car.

There was a regular thumping coming from the trunk now. Montoya had woken up about a half hour earlier. Maybe longer, for all he knew, but the thumping and muffled yelling hadn't started until then. But now that the car had stopped moving and the engine had been shut off, the sounds were getting a little more frantic.

Krycek leaned against the car and listened for a while, until Mulder rejoined him. Poor little Estoban. And the only people around to hear him were the two who had snatched him.

Eventually the thumping slowed, then stopped. That was the sign Krycek had been waiting for, and he gestured for Mulder to go pull the trunk release. The lid popped up, revealing the man inside. Montoya looked a lot paler than when he'd gone into the trunk. The skin around his wrists and ankles was bruising, although he hadn't struggled quite long enough to break the skin. A pity, that. A little blood went a long way in convincing someone to talk. There were traces of tears on the man's face, and from the smell, he'd soiled himself sometime during the drive. Good think Krycek had put in a drop cloth to line the trunk. The Hunters might object to the car being returned smelling of shit.

"Hello, sunshine," Krycek said with his nastiest grin, staring down at Montoya. "Time for a little chat, Estoban."

With that, he grabbed the pudgy Cuban by the scruff of the neck and hauled him out of the trunk. With his hands and feet bound, and his legs probably numb to boot, Montoya went crashing to his knees. Considering the condition of the dirt road, that had to hurt.

Krycek pulled out his knife—carefully cleaned of the ketchup before they'd hit the road—and Montoya immediately started to whimper. He tried to shuffle away, but Krycek grabbed his ankle before he could get far. "Hold still," he ordered, "and maybe this won't hurt."

Montoya froze, and Krycek took the opportunity to cut the plastic ties off of the man's legs. "There," he said in a gentle tone. "Now, isn't that better?" he asked, pulling the man to his feet.

Montoya swayed in place, and for a moment, Krycek thought that he was going to collapse again. Then he steadied, and some of the fear faded from his eyes. Instead, now he seemed to be trying to calculate just how deep the shit he was in was, and how he could get out of it with his skin intact.

Krycek grabbed a corner of the piece of duct tape covering the man's mouth and ripped it away quickly. The resulting bellow of pain made a flock of birds take off from the surrounding tree cover, but that was it. "You do realize, of course, that there's no one around to hear you, except me and my partner," Krycek said conversationally. "And if I slit your throat and leave you here, chances are pretty good that the 'gators will find you long before the authorities do. But if you play nicely, you might come out of this in one piece."

"My people will be looking for me," Montoya said, his voice sounding very rusty.

"Of course they will. But they won't find you, at least, not until we let them."

Montoya stared at him. "If it's money you're after..."

Krycek laughed. "We don't want your money," he said as Mulder came back around the car, a bottle of spring water in his hand. Krycek took it and drank a swig. Montoya watched avidly. After being locked in a hot car trunk with a piece of duct tape over his mouth for several hours, he had to be desperate for a drink, but he didn't ask. Krycek's respect for the man went up fractionally. It could be a good thing or a bad thing. It just depended on how pragmatic the man could be.

"What is it you want, then?" Montoya finally said.

"Information," Krycek said, and for a moment he wanted to snicker. He suddenly had a mental image of himself wearing a button with the picture of an old-fashioned bicycle and a number 2 on it. "Jerome Michaels. What he's planning."

At least Montoya didn't try to pretend that he didn't know who or what Krycek was talking about. "I can wind up just as dead telling you as not," he said.

Krycek shrugged. "That's up to you. You can tell your people anything you want. Rivals. Feds. A jealous husband. Someone wanted to put the scare on you. The only way that Michaels will know that you talked is if you tell him, or we get caught. And trust me, he isn't going to catch us."

Montoya thought about it. "All right," he said. "What do you want to know?"

Krycek's eyebrows went up. He was a little surprised that the man had caved quite so quickly, but he stepped forward and used the knife to cut the man's hands free, then nodded to Mulder to give the man the water bottle. Montoya took a sipped, swished it around his mouth, then spat. Then he took a long drink and settled against the car's back bumper, wincing slightly as his bare ass hit hot metal. Krycek grinned. "Everything," he said. "Start and the beginning and keep going."

"All right..."

* * *

The 'do not disturb' sign was still on the cabin door, but Sally ignored it. It had been there for four days now, and the car that the three men had arrived in was gone. They had paid in advance for a week, so she wasn't worried that they'd decided to run out on their bill, but not cleaning the cabin or even changing the sheets went against every instinct she had.

She wheeled the cart she used for cleaning supplies and linens—she was owner, desk clerk, and maid for the small motel all by herself, and had been since ditching the big city to move to Key West more than a decade earlier—and knocked on the door. "Housekeeping!" she announced in her brightest voice. There was no answer.

After waiting a minute, and knocking a second time, just to be safe, she tried the door. It was locked, unsurprisingly, so she pulled the master key from her pocket and used it to unlock the cabin door. "Housekeeping," she said again as she pushed the door open, even though it was clear to her that her guests weren't there. In fact, she hadn't seen them in more than a day, and she was beginning to get suspicious. They hadn't acted like the typical tourists— they certainly hadn't packed like tourists, or visited the local sights and bars like most tourists—but they hadn't done anything that would justify calling James at the police station. At least, not yet.

But it looked like that was about to change, she realized, staring that the open suitcase sitting on top of one of the unmade beds.

Because while she certainly was no expert, that sure as hell looked like a bomb to her.

June 2003


	16. Part Fifteen

**The Sentinel Project  
Part Fifteen   
by Lianne Burwell**

  
James Logan hissed when he arrived at the Markus Motel. Sally was waiting for him trying, to look calm, but he knew her well enough to tell just how worried she was. She was doing a damned good job of covering it up, though; probably in an attempt to make sure that she didn't start a panic. Luckily, while the freakishly hot weather from the summer had finally started to break, the tourists were light on the ground still. The last thing he needed was a public panic.

He was really hoping that whatever was in the room, it wasn't a real bomb, but he wasn't counting on it. Sally wasn't a fool. If she said it was a bomb, chances were pretty damned good that that was exactly what it was. That was why he'd tucked the number of the Miami bomb department into his pocket on the way out. No way in hell he or any of his people were ready to deal with a bomb. The Key West police department was used to handling belligerent drunks, break-ins, and the occasional fist-fight. Once, he'd even had to deal with a murder, but thankfully that was a rare occurrence.

Mike followed Sally to the row of tidy little cottages behind the main building. The motel wasn't right on the water, but it was up an incline, so you could see the ocean from the cottage back windows over the rooftops. Not the highest priced motel on the island, but not the cheapest either. It was, in fact, just what it looked like: a pleasant, well-kept place to have a vacation.

Sally's supply cart was parked outside of cabin 3, and she pulled out her keys to unlock the door. She held it open for Mike, but stayed where she was in the doorway. Mike stepped into the room cautiously, his eyes fixed on the open suitcase on the bed.

Yep. That sure looked like a bomb to him. Shit.

He stepped back out into the warm sunshine and pulled his cell phone and the piece of paper out of his pocket. 

Time to call in the experts.

* * *

Jack stood against the back wall of the room, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the skinny-assed blonde giving the presentation. Carter would have made it far more interesting, he thought to himself. Anise was not exactly public-speaking material. Her material was too technical, and she delivered it in a near monotone that was threatening to put him to sleep.

Daniel and Carter seemed to be following it, at least, but neither one of them looked happy. Jack wasn't sure if it was just they were as unhappy as him at being tagged for this little test, or was there something in the presentation itself setting off warning bells.

Just being there was setting off _his_ warning bells. Of course, being in the same room as the Tok'ra scientist, Maybourne, and the ice bitch from hell did that all by itself. Hell, he didn't want to be around any of them, let alone all three at the same time.

The briefing was winding down, finally. It was at that point that Anise brought out a rather ominous looking metal case. She flipped open the lid to reveal five of the damned wristbands. Jack had to fight the perfectly logical urge to scream and run when he saw them. Anticipation was a terrible thing, and he'd spent the night before tossing and turning, harassed by nightmares he hadn't had in months. Well, he hadn't had _those_ nightmares. Considering everything he'd seen over the years, nightmares were a familiar friend.

Anise stopped in front of him, the box held out. One eyebrow was elegantly arched, and he could see just a hint of a smirk on those perfect lips. With her looks, if she'd been anyone else, he would have been flirting like mad. Instead, all he wanted was to wipe the smug look of her face. Maybe even with brass knuckles.

Refusing to give her the satisfaction, he reached out and picked on up. Then he stopped her before she could move on to the next person. "Hold it right there."

"Colonel O'Neill," Covarrubias said warningly. If it wasn't for Carter, he could develop a real hate for blondes.

"No. Last time we did this as a group, and you ended up with a restaurant in town smashed to pieces. This time, we do it right."

"And what do you consider right?"

"This time we stick with _one_ subject. Me. And this time you don't give Dr. Frasier the run around. Have you found a way to get the armbands off if there is a problem?"

Anise glared at him. "Yes."

"Good. If the doctor says it comes off, it comes off. And no surprise missions."

"And no leaving the base," General Hammond added.

Jack winced. "Uh, right. That too. And once an adequate period of time has gone by without adverse effects, and the armband is successfully removed without damage to the wearer, _then_ we think about expanding the tests. Understood?"

"And what do you consider an adequate length of time?"

Jack thought about it for a moment. "Based on last time, it only took a couple of days for us to start acting like... well, not ourselves. Let's say a week."

Covarrubias frowned. "Have you forgotten current events? These armbands could be very important."

"And last time we used them, they made us act like teenagers with poor impulse control, and they _fell off_ at the worst possible moment, almost getting us all killed! Sure, they _might_ be useful, but I wouldn't trust them any further than I can throw Teal'c here. We do this in slow baby steps this time. And if you don't like it, I guess you will have to arrest me, because neither I or my team will touch these things."

Jack met her, glare for glare, and in the end, Covarrubias was the one to back down. "All right. One week. And if there is no sign of ill-effects, we expand the trial to the entire team. Is that acceptable, Colonel?" she asked, sarcasm dripping from the title.

"Not really, but it will do."

Jack looked down at the armband and took a deep breath. Then he set it on his forearm and clicked it shut.

* * *

James Logan was definitely having a bad day. In the hours since he'd contacted Miami, first the Miami PD bomb squad had been flown it, and they'd taken one look at the bomb, then called the ATF. They hadn't answered any questions, just telling him to evacuate the area, but the almost gray cast to their faces worried him. They dealt with bombs practically all the time; what was different about this one?

When the ATF arrived, followed closely by the FBI, he knew it was trouble. The only problem was, no one was answering questions. More guys in suits were arriving by the hour to harass poor Sally, who'd already told them everything she could more times than he could count. It was almost like they thought she was trying to hide something from them. What did they think, she was helping the bombers? Perhaps they had forgotten that she was the one who had called him.

Unfortunately, he didn't have a clue what they were thinking, because no one was talking to him. Giving him orders, yes, but not telling him anything.

So he did what he could, clearing the area and doing his best to reassure the citizens, most of whom he knew by name and long familiarity. The experts were on the scene and doing their jobs.

That was when the press arrived.

* * *

Mulder was literally hanging onto the door frame as they whipped through he back roads, trying to keep his head from hitting the roof of the car every time Alex hit a pot hole. There seemed to be an unnatural number of them, and he tried to distract himself by mentally writing a travel request to investigate the reason. He actually laughed out loud as he imagined Skinner's face after reading it. Alex glanced at him with a frown, then thankfully turned his attention back to the road.

Montoya had spilled his guts. Considering the circumstances, that wasn't a big surprise. When he put his mind to it—and even when he didn't—Alex could be damned scary. He was an excellent actor, as Mulder had learned when he'd realized that his eager, innocent partner was actually a double-agent working for his worst enemy. And even more frightening, he was willing to follow through on his threats. And when faced with the idea of being sliced, then dumped for the 'gators or cougars to deal with, Montoya talked.

And what he had to say had chilled both their blood. If he was telling the truth. Only thing was, what he told them matched up too closely with what Alex's friend in Chicago had said.

Key West. Playground of Jimmy Buffet fans. Popular vacation spot. Subject of songs and movies. Mulder had never been there, but he'd heard stories.

About to be wiped off the map.

"How long do we have?"

Alex shrugged. "It'll take us a few hours to get there. Then we have to find the damned thing. And then we have to figure out how to disarm it." His expression turned grim. "I don't think we can do it."

"So what, then? Call it in?"

Alex shook his head. "Even if they believe us, they'll also trace the call. They'll be after us even faster than the bomb. _Especially_ if the Consortium has people in the local police forces."

Mulder hesitated. "What about calling Spender? If he and Michaels are fighting for control..."

"Assuming he doesn't already know about it, I doubt he'll do anything. If anything, it'd be in his best interests to let it happen, then use it to nail Michaels to the wall."

Mulder shuddered, and looked out the car window. Unfortunately, Alex was probably right. It was just the sort of convoluted conspiracy-think that he would expect from the Consortium.

So, the only thing that stood between Key West and oblivion was two fugitives.

They were fucked.

Writing mental travel requests wasn't working anymore. Mulder turned up the radio instead. The car filled with the sound of a song that was popular when he was a kid, and he leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to doze.

"We interrupt this program with a news flash from the Florida Keys..."

* * *

"A terrorist bomb has been found in a motel room on Key West. The ATF has sent a team to disarm the bomb, while the FBI is tracing the person or persons who rented the room. Officials say that there is no cause for concern. I repeat, a terrorist bomb has been found in a hotel room in the Florida Keys."

The unwilling members of the Sentinel Project had quickly assembled in their break room as soon as CNN had broken the news. There was little information available to the news network, but that didn't stop them from broadcasting what little they did know, and they had plenty of 'experts' ready to speculate on what it meant.

Of course, the first and most obvious piece of speculation was that it was connected to the assassination attempt on the president, who was reportedly still in a coma, and the successful assassination of the vice-president. No one had any idea why the Florida Keys were being targeted, though. Perhaps because more obvious targets were too well protected. Perhaps the terrorists had come by boat from Cuba and it was the only place they had been able to land undetected. There were theories, but no details.

Jim couldn't help feeling a certain amount of powerlessness as they listened to the news reports, even though he knew that they wouldn't have been able to do anything even if the bastard upstairs hadn't snatched them. Back home in Cascade, the only way he could have been further from the scene be if he lived in Alaska or Hawaii.

"Relax," Blair whispered, squeezing his hand.

Jim glanced from the television to his partner's face. He could easily see the fine lines around the younger man's eyes and mouth. "I could say the same," he replied. He pulled his hand free and started massaging Blair's shoulders. A thought occurred to him. "Have you ever been to Key West?" he asked.

"A couple times, with Naomi. We used to go traveling during summer vacation, and it's a pretty obvious place to go, you know?" Blair tore his gaze away from the television screen with a near wince. "It's a beautiful place, and I always intended to go back someday. You?"

Jim paused for a moment, then sighed. "I always meant to get there, but never had the time."

They were silent for a moment, then Blair laughed, a sharp bark of a laugh. "Listen to us. We're talking like the place is gone. Nothing's happened to it. The experts are there, and they'll take care of the bomb, right? And even if it goes off, how much damage can it really do?"

"Depends on how big it is. A few buildings, maybe a block. Fire could be a big risk, if the surrounding buildings are made of wood. But they'll evacuate the area, just in case, and buildings can be rebuilt."

The lines were starting to disappear. "Right. And I'm sure they've got the best people on the job. They'll have that thing disarmed before we know it."

* * *

The rusted heap of a mini-bus was either missing its shock absorbers, or it had never had them to begin with. Whichever one it was, the drive over the border had been hell. Every dip or bump in the road had sent them all bouncing, and Kincaid hoped that Jarod's geek had packed his gear really well, because by the time they reached the main road on the other side of the border, he was beginning to think the _bus_ wasn't going to survive the trip.

He knew his ass wasn't.

But they finally made it to a road that had been repaved sometime in the last decade, and the ride smoothed out slightly, to everyone's relief. It still wasn't great, since Mexico didn't have the tax money that the States did for paving roads unless they were in popular tourist areas, but at least they could hold a decent conversation.

Of course, that assumed that anyone was interested in conversation. Jarod had closed his eyes and was taking a nap, which Kincaid approved of. Back when he'd been a mercenary, he'd learned the value of catching a few weeks whenever the opportunity presented itself. His pal, Broots, had put on a pair of headphones and was listening to something on the little portable unit he'd brought with him. Skinner and Scully were at the back of the bus, whispering to each other. He wished he knew what they were talking about.

Which left him, sitting in the driver's sleep with nothing to do but drive. He had a map strapped to the dashboard, pointing the way to the first town where they would be stopping for gas. At that point, they would switch drivers, and he would take a nap himself.

The mini-bus was everything Wolfling had promised, though. The shocks may have been crappy, and it looked like it was being held together by rust, but the engine ran smoothly, and they'd made it over the roughest terrain without getting stuck.

The only thing it was missing that he really wanted was a tape deck, or even just a radio. Since no one was interested in talking to him, boredom was quickly setting in. All that he had to do was watch the terrain and think; about the state of affairs in the country they'd just left, speculation about what was ahead of them, worry that they were going to reach their destination only to find that Debi wasn't there, and about the lovely Captain Carter. The last was the only one that didn't threaten to give him ulcers, so he let himself reminisce about the gleam of her blonde hair and the brightness of her smile. His taste had usually run to men, but Captain Carter had definitely caught his attention.

He kept one eye on the fuel gauge, one on the road, and what was probably a slightly foolish grin on his face as he continued to drive. The relative silence started to lull him into complacency.

Of course, that was when Broots jumped out of his seat, hit the ceiling, and collapsed back down, cursing loudly. Kincaid hit the brakes and turned in his seat. "Are you all right?" he asked the man.

Broots was still letting loose with a string of invectives that Kincaid would have previously bet that the man had never heard, let alone understood. Broots wasn't exactly the cursing type.

Jarod was checking the top of the man's head when he pulled off the earphones and tossed them, and the mini radio, to Kincaid. Kincaid put the earphones on.

"Rumors that the bomb is possibly a pocket nuke cannot be confirmed. Authorities are urging the people of southern Florida to remain where they are, saying that there is no immediate threat. Again, the FBI and ATF are on the scene in the Florida Keys, where an apparent terrorist bomb has been found."

"Oh, crap," was all Kincaid could think of to say.

TO BE CONTINUED

September 2003


End file.
